


the reason i come alive

by Tohje



Series: Visions made of flesh and light [1]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anakin eventually collecting all the masters, Don't copy to another site, Fix-It, M/M, Repressed Idiots In Love, Sickfic, That's Not How The Force Works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 10:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18259625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tohje/pseuds/Tohje
Summary: Aftermath of Naboo leaves Qui-Gon reeling despite his best attempts, Obi-Wan floating in a liminal place, and Anakin in strange hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Isn't it sort of a rite of passage to write a self-indulgent TPM fix-it twenty years after when you're re-entering the fandom?
> 
> My beta deserves to be drowned in precious offerings and gilded sacrifices.

Your peace as an evangelist to me.

Your transformations unknown.

I study your sleeping form

at the bottom of the pool

like a house I could return to,

 

like a head to be cradled in the arms.

Unless you are asleep I cannot make my way

across the night

and through my isolation. ---

 

Anne Carson, _Glass, Irony & God _

 

Prologue

 

As a Jedi, you’re most trained, even more than for the obedience, for letting go. For taking an event, a feeling, a trouble in a mission, examining it, setting a course for yourself and then releasing the trouble to the Force. It starts even as a youngling, when you let go of your family ties, your parents, siblings, to gain something other which Force gives as a prize for your obedience.  

 

So it goes. For a master has to let go their padawan, to see they rise and soar. For a knight must let go of  everything they cannot change in this cold hard universe, can not even when they can do so much, and in the end still so little. For a Jedi to let go of faint possibilities they encounter on their travels, of whispers ‘This could be your future, the future where you’re not so achingly, endlessly alone.’ As a reward, you get to protect, to salve, to achieve a balance of mind.  

 

What you should do then, when you’re a Jedi, and despite that, your loved one dies?

 

*

*

*

 

What do you do instead?

 

You burn.

 

1.

 

Qui-Gon woke up gasping. His mouth filled with gravel. He was in the middle of something, something important. Why there was so much sorrow on his padawan’s face?

 

“Master Jinn, ground yourself. This is not the present moment you think you’re living in.”

 

The pain hit, so intense that all he managed was to breathe around it for a while. A hot, white agony, searing through his left lung like a… spear? Spike? Blade? Oh Force, red double blade, his padawan was facing the alien Sith alone and what was he doing? Curling into a ball like a poked caterpillar?

 

“Kriff! He doesn’t remember the Council ship or the latest bacta… Master Jinn! Patient Jinn! Qui-Gon! Ground yourself, find this moment, find the now! It’s just the memory of a body, a bacta tank afterimage! Release it, let it go!”

 

The commanding voice was right, Obi-Wan was out there alone and he had to concentrate and search the bond and locate him, the faster the better. Qui-Gon breathed and blinked, breathed and blinked. Gradually, the room slowed its spinning. The pain started to subside to a confused numbness on the left side of his lungs.

 

“Yes, that’s better” the voice said more soothingly this time. Qui-Gon blinked once more, and the face that belonged to the voice sharpened above him. A Twi'lek.

 

“Now, let’s see if we can do something to those shields of yours. You’re broadcasting like a comm tower. Nobody's in danger, nobody's hurting. You don’t have to worry so much. Search out, you’re home, you’ll see,” the Twi’lek persuaded him.  

 

Breathing through the fading pain was easier already, so Qui-Gon whispered a plea to the Force. It answered amiably, wrapping him in a profound sense of home, embracing a thousand lifeforms. He was in the Temple. Back on Coruscant. He’d also spent quite some time in a bacta tank, if the smell was any indication.

 

It meant the battle was long past, even though the horror still clung to his tongue. Surely he would feel the gutting absence of the bond if things had ended wrong, if the brightest light had been taken from him, so that must mean -

 

Qui-Gon reached, and something peculiar happened. The bond was still there, thank Force, but it felt like he was calling from the surface of the planet and Obi-Wan dwelled  hundreds and hundreds feet below, at its core. He couldn’t make the bond move at all, not even stir.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the Twi'lek chided gently. Qui-Gon felt her guiding presence, encouraging him to retreat and raise his shields. He obeyed instinctively, opened his eyes, forced them to focus, and glared at the Twi'lek. Healer, most likely.

 

“What happened? What’s going on in Naboo? Has the Council decided yet about the boy? And what the kriff has happened to my padawan?”

 

The Twi'lek sighed, and her lekku swished.

 

***

 

Obi-Wan woke up to the darkness. It took an embarrassingly long while for him to realize that he was awake, since his eyes weren’t open and _wouldn’t_ open. His consciousness flickered like a skittish firefly at that thought, and when he tried to grasp it, somebody blew the bug out of existence.

 

An indeterminate amount of time passed.

 

The second time around, it was the sounds that drew his attention. Something was wheezing, something was beeping at regular intervals. The faint ticking of a chrono somewhere on his left side, probably on the wall. He tried to turn his head to check the time, but couldn’t will his muscles to move and do the thing.

 

Nothing would move or respond, really, he discovered rapidly. He froze in terror at the realization, like a green initiate freezes in front of a charging gundark. He couldn’t be found like this, exposed and unprepared when there were black and red flashes at the edges of his vision. All his instincts screamed _danger danger danger_ at him.   

 

It took a few seconds, but the training kicked in. Use whatever senses you are able to. Check your surroundings.

 

There was the wheezing, the beeping, the tiny ticking again. Otherwise, it was quiet. He couldn’t hear anyone breathing. If there was somebody -- a pair of yellow, taunting eyes floated forefront of his mind for some reason -- in the room with him, they were holding their breath. It was probably night time? Or very early in the morning?

He smelled antiseptics. There was a warm, itchy blanket on his knees. Comfortable, worn clothes that were definitely not his. He wasn’t bound to the bed; his hands hung limp on both sides of his frustrating body. There was something unpleasant in his throat - a tube of some sort?

 

It didn’t feel like he was being held captive, but something was definitely off. It was so quiet, not only outside, but inside his mind as well.

 

Before he had time to mull over the suspicious silence, there was a clicking sound, then footsteps. Obi-Wan tensed and readied himself, or tried to. His uncooperative body slumbered on.

 

The footsteps approached his bed, then stopped on the right side. There was a tapping sound that reminded him of a data pad writing, then a short silence. Then came a sound, a melodic, chirping “Tsk tsk!”, like somebody was unsatisfied with something.

 

Now there were quite a few sentient species Obi-Wan could imagine making that kind of sound, but a Togruta was the most obvious one. He wondered. There definitely weren’t many Togruta in Naboo, which must mean he wasn’t necessarily on the planet anymore, and _that_ meant… oh, Force. Master! _Master!_

 

Obi-Wan brought down his shields, reaching frantically. The silence grew and grew in response, engulfing everything. He didn’t even notice the Togruta leaving his bedside. There was nobody here! His master wasn’t here! All his life, for as long as he could remember, there had been a background current, the humming awareness of all things in the Force connecting, shining. It was gone from him.  

 

Having a panic attack in a body that didn’t actually react to it, didn’t even change its even breathing rhythm, was definitely one of the weirder experiences of his life - and he had plenty of those, thanks to the man who called him padawan-mine when he was being indulgent. Now Qui-Gon was indefinitely lost to him. Flashes of red and black had won, the yellow, taunting eyes had won, and had taken his world away from him.

 

Obi-Wan threw caution to the wind. His reaching became reckless, something he hadn’t allowed to happen since his creche years, when it had earned a tapping on the back of his head and reproachful gaze from the master of the day; he hadn’t shielded at all, silly crecheling. Where was everybody? Seven Siths and their offspring, _where was the Force itself?_

 

He was abandoned on a desolate moon, sobbing into the starless expanse of space. The space couldn’t care less that he screamed his master’s name into it inside his mind until he was mentally hoarse, chafed bloody.

 

***

 

Anakin stood alone in the apartment, taking controlled breaths. The sun was setting behind large windows, painting everything in rich oranges and dark shadows.

 

He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to walk around and explore. Blast everything, he wasn’t even sure if they weren’t watching him right now. That thought, more than obedience, rooted him to the spot. It also made him shuffle his feet, just a little, and he swallowed back a sob that tried to wrench itself free from his throat. Even, controlled breaths, just like mi-- master Qui-Gon had taught him.

 

But even the thought of master Qui-Gon couldn’t calm him down. After the blurred panic of the battle’s aftermath and the emergency hyperspace flight, the Council had agreed to take him in. Or, more like, he had sort of drifted along when nobody had time to pay any attention to him, but they had messed it all up again, hadn’t they? And now he was off with this stern, exhausted stranger who didn’t like him one bit. The one who had left him here when master Qui-Gon was in the healing ward and mister Obi-Wan was even worse and his mot--

 

The sob got free and broke the silence of the impersonal living room. The sun was just waving its last goodbyes above the horizon, making the shadows in the room even longer, when the door whooshed open. The man was almost as tall as master Jinn, and there were fresh looking, thin scabs on his dark, bald head. He stepped in with two large sailor bags on his back. He stopped at the sight of Anakin standing right where he had left the boy, next to the windows.

 

“Child? Why are you still standing there?” the man frowned.

 

“It’s not polite to snoop around other people’s places, ” Anakin muttered. The man liked him so little already, feared him even. It would be no good to poke around and make a mistake. Besides, in a world where there was so little of privacy for so many like he and his mother, he was taught from a young age that you gave people space whenever possible. You didn’t sneak around. You let other people have what little was left of their secrets. The man clearly didn’t see it that way.

 

The frown deepened. “These are not my rooms. I don’t have the space for you in my place ready since I haven’t taken a charge in years. This’ll have to do for tonight. We’ve got a lot of moving to do tomorrow.”

 

Oh. The guest rooms, then. It explained the lack of anything personal. There were no  photos, used water glasses, or unfinished holobooks, not even a forgotten cloak on the back of the couch. Anakin had just assumed that the apartment’s austerity was equal to its owner.

 

The man dropped the bags on the floor, strode by the sofa, sat down and kept staring at him. “Speak your mind. It’s quite late for this much whirling, and you’re not gonna sleep in that state.”

 

Speak his mind? Anakin felt his hackles rise. This man took one look at him and had decided he wasn’t worthy. The others must have saddled him with Anakin anyway, and _now_ he wanted to hear his thoughts. Anakin squeezed his hands into fists before he had time to think.

 

The man sighed and pointed out the floor next to him. “Come here. Kneel. Rest your weight evenly on both sides, and don’t stretch your soles. Let your hands rest on your knees, palms up.”

 

Anakin didn’t see a way to refuse. This was familiar and learned, even though it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

The frown deepened impossibly further. “This is a basic meditation pose, designed to calm and relax. A Jedi learns this from a young age as a means to soothe. You seem to master it gracefully. Yet I sense even deeper agitation from you. Speak.”

 

Anakin swallowed. “It’s fitting for a servant, master. I have no complaints.” He was proud how steady his voice sounded.

 

The man winced, just a little. He muttered something inaudible, although Anakin thought he heard “Qui-Gon” and “old fool.” Then, to Anakin’s surprise, he slid down from the sofa in one long motion, so that they ended up face to face. His stare was intense this close. “Young one. Sit however you like, for tonight. I should have thought about the allusions.”

 

Anakin gaped. This haughty, distrustful man, whose whole being demanded submission, was sort of... _apologizing_ to him? He drew his knees under his chin and wrapped his arms around them. That, for some reason, made the man sigh again, but he didn’t elaborate.

 

“Thank you?” Anakin offered carefully.

 

“All right then,” the man continued. “I know our return was a chaotic one, thanks to master Jinn’s and padawan Kenobi’s alarming states, and I didn’t have time for explanations. I promise that won’t be the case in the future. Ignorance leads to the fe--”

 

“Are they all right? Master Jinn and mister Kenobi? They’re not hurt anymore, are they?” Anakin’s mouth had a will of its own. He bit his lip. A mistake. He _hated_ those. They were costly.

 

“Our healers are very capable, child, and they are doing everything they can. Now, I sense anger. Why?”

 

The man’s style was abrupt, but strangely, Anakin found he didn’t mind. At least the man wasn’t treating him like he was something that could go off and explode from the wrong move.

 

“I was scared, and I didn’t like it,” he started slowly. “I was afraid of this strange place, yes, but even more that I didn’t know where master Jinn was, and I felt helpless. And then there was a possibility to get the information, and I blew it by interrupting. It angered me.”

 

The man nodded. “Because you made what you considered a mistake, when you could have found out something about the people you care about.” He seemed to ponder that for a moment. “There’s a sleeping bag and a pillow for you. I want you to take them out and decide where you want to sleep tonight. I want you to make your bed there and focus solely on that. I will check your handiwork later.”

 

Anakin reeled. “I… can decide where I want to sleep?” he asked in a small voice. That was… all his life, he’d only ever been ordered to do the exact opposite.

 

Something flashed in the man’s dark eyes. “Yes.”

 

Anakin sprinted to the bags. The sleeping bag felt light, silky, and expensive, and the pillow was hefty. He had already swung them on his shoulder when the man spoke again.

 

“That other reason you were upset. When I was at your age, I was so angry, I was brimming with it. That’s why you’re with me.”

 

Anakin didn’t know how to answer, except for the obvious “Why?”, and he had a vague sense that the man was upset and wouldn’t answer. The feeling changed abruptly, projecting calm. It could have been a bluff, but Anakin wasn’t sure that was all to it.

 

“What if I choose the biggest bed?” Anakin quipped, not wanting the man to continue to be sad, for reasons he wasn’t even sure of himself.

 

The man’s eyebrows rose to his non-existent hair line. “I suppose I would have to stand behind my words then, wouldn’t I?” he answered.

 

Anakin giggled, just the tiniest sound. “Don’t worry, sir. A smaller bedroom is fine.”

 

“Go make your bed for the night.”

 

He left the strange man who, others had decided, was supposed to become his master, sitting on the floor with shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

Qui-Gon stood outside of the transparisteel-walled room, leaning on a cane and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other hand. “Walk me through this one last time, if you would be so kind,” he pleaded to the mutinous-looking Togruta healer.

 

“I walk you through the infirmary and back to the ward this instant if you don’t stop pretending you’re not dizzy enough to fall over your sorry arse and. Sit. Down!” the Togruta snapped. She crossed her arms and glowered at the abashed Twi'lek. “How did you let him talk you into this, and without a hoverchair, seven Siths only ever know.”

 

“He was doing more harm than good for his recovery with all his fretting,” the Twi'lek, Tann, murmured. “Patient Jinn, would you please sit so that you don’t overexert yourself.” She had known her patient awake a handful of days and guessed well enough why the older master was reluctant to sit down: It would block his view to the other side of the glass. “He seemed to find my expertise in this matter somewhat lacking. Not that I blame him,” she added.

 

The Togruta kept glaring at both of them until Qui-Gon sat down, careful not to let the cane fall to the floor. Then she snorted. “It’s everyone’s expertise that’s lacking. This case is something straight out from the myths of old. My partner has burrowed down to the medical archives for days, and we only find obscure clues here and lucky guesses there. We only figured out to build the separating cover to stop the midi-chlorian burnout two days ago.”

 

Tann’s lekku gestured in surprise. “Isn’t that the technique they use at the mental health ward?”

 

Qui-Gon’s head snapped up.

 

The Togruta shrugged. “Essentially, yes. Don’t think of it as an inhibition collar or anything, but more like a security blanket in which the patient is wrapped. It isolates them from active Force abilities while their mind is unbalanced and they are in danger of using their powers uncontrollably, which could hurt either themselves or others. Now, in the case of our young, foolish hero here -” she gestured at the glass wall “ - picture him under an impressive pile of those blankets at the moment. It’s really not that different from putting out a fire in the kitchen with a thick carpet, strengthened by a hint of Force suppression.” She smiled rudely. “Controversial, I know, but so is this debacle.”

 

“So you’re saying,” Qui-Gon started slowly, “that my padawan is under all… that, and can’t connect to the Force at all, and not in the bacta tank. Why?”

 

The healer specialist sat heavily down as well, forcing the effects of the long night shift to retreat for a bit longer. “Because it wasn’t helping. They tried it on the emergency flight. Oh, it healed his physical wounds all right. But master Jinn, you weren’t there when they brought him in. He was…  our poets like to wax metaphors about how our souls are little flames in the Force and all that, but in his case it was literal. He burned like a furnace. No, that’s not enough, it was like looking at one of those huge coke melting pots in the iron mines of Truelles’ moon. The amount of Force he was channeling, like I said, is the stuff of obscure legends. Didn’t you wonder why you are walking around despite the mortal wounding, emergency bacta at hand or not?”

 

Something twitched at the patient’s carefully blank face. Tann hovered at his elbow. Togruta made a small motion like she would like to rub her eyes. Her voice got quieter, and melodic accent pushed through, revealing tiredness.

 

“The bacta didn’t stand a chance against it. The medic of the Councilor ship said he was honestly surprised it hadn’t vaporised right then and there. The Force flow was eating him alive, and we had to cut him off from it completely. That isn’t normally a wise thing to do to someone force-sensitive. Thank the small mercies of unconsciousness and brain swelling. He shouldn’t be aware any of that yet.”

 

Qui-Gon stood and the cane clattered to the floor. Three long strides carried him back to the glass wall. “When I can go to him?” Neither of the healers couldn’t see his face, only his rigid back and shoulders.

 

The Togruta healer made a small, cooing sound. “At the moment, his midi-chlorian readings are extremely… unstable, for lack of a better word. This sounds unprofessional, but the chlorians seem to suffer from the third-degree burns. It almost looked like dying embers against the night sky…” She shook herself. “He requires healing trance sessions. But before my partner digs something concrete up from the archives, we’re too much in the dark to dare try anything drastic. I’m so sorry.”

 

Qui-Gon’s back didn’t yield.

 

***

 

Years as Qui-Gon’s padawan had honed many of Obi-Wan’s talents, and diplomatic missions were the best teachers when it came to recognizing patterns. It didn’t take Obi-Wan that long - not that he was going anywhere -  to differentiate the day shift from the night shift, to recognize the most permanent healers and their habits from another.

 

For they must be healers, Obi-Wan was sure of that. He was tested, poked and needled. It didn’t feel malicious, but clinical, and the inconvenient tube in his throat was meant to aid his (useless, duff, purposeless sack of a bantha dung) body to breathe, not as some kind of torture device.

 

There was the one he thought was Togruta. She always sounded annoyed at something, but her touch was inquiring and gentle. He guessed the other regular was humanoid, based on the aftershave wafting from the guy. His touch and steps were even-tempered, bordering on lazy. There were others, but the rotation was harder to construct.

 

The aftershave, thank the absent Force for the aftershave. Its comings and goings gave Obi-Wan some vague sense that time had passed. It was a frustratingly unreliable measuring tool, though, because he was still out cold for long periods of time. Some of that was induced by healing trances, he suspected, especially after he had overheard the healers mentioning Vokara Che in passing.

 

He must be back at the Temple. For all the good it did him, staring at the quiet, starless space behind his eyelids.

 

The Force remained as elusive as ever through his first awakening and initial breakdown. The longer the infinite days dragged on without the bond returning, the harder it was to cling to the last wisps of hope. Qui-Gon would have come if it were in any way possible. His master was lost to him.

 

Never in his life had he dedicated his (kriffing boundless) time to Living in the Moment as he was doing now. It didn’t escape Obi-Wan that his master would have thrown his head back in mirth at the irony.

 

He collected and sorted through even the slightest changes in and impressions of his surroundings: tastes, sounds, smells, changes in air pressure, and background noises. He spent one afternoon (he decided it was afternoon) meditating on the feel of textiles in his sickbed. It was a startling reminder how Force-insensitives must wade through the world, relying only on their senses and own logic, without helpful nudges. Obi-Wan felt young and inexperienced compared to them.

 

It was also totally inadequate.

 

Obi-Wan had always known that idleness suited him poorly. Well, yes, he had developed some since his teenage years, when Qui-Gon occasionally only managed to deal with his moodiness by tiring him out in training salles for five hours a day. Padawan Spitfire, his master had called him, and steering away from that line of thought right about now. That way laid the monsters. But now he had nothing but time, stretching ahead of and around him:  and his only company was his own sorrows, failings, and the stupid, stupid longing that just didn’t agree to crawl somewhere to shrivel and hide.

 

Before, it had been so easy to avoid his own thoughts. After Yinchorr they were always on the move, hurtling from one crisis to the next. There were innocents to save, to put first, like a proper Jedi should. Even when they were back on Coruscant, a call to Bant and Garen or some other friend and ta-da, problems safely tucked away. Some diplomatic quarrel to untangle, some daredevil last minute rescue, studying, for Force’s sake, give him those, he _excelled_ at those, unlike when his failings gave him the stink-eye among the blackness. No doubt it was payback for all the times he had dealt with them by simply releasing them to the Force.   

 

He had so much time, endless seconds and minutes trickling like syrup from his hands, heavy with sorrow and loss. Still, he couldn’t do what Qui-Gon or all his temple lessons had taught him: examine your feelings, accept them, and let them go. Oh yes, examining them was fine (he wasn’t a complete idiot about attachment, unlike Bant and Garen thought - and then the voice inside his head started to snipe at him how he was late, years late, awfully late, and if he only had been proper, had paid attention instead of useless daydreaming, he could have known something, _anything_ that would have -- and hello, the other path to the monsters laid this way).

 

Release them? He was doing the exact opposite, hoarding those heavy drops back to his grip. Every one of them was a memory, a small sliver of his fragmented world.

 

He didn’t remember much about Naboo, the source of fragmentation. Everything was as clear as it could be in the midst of the battle, up to the point where he beat the Sith, saw the light go out from the cruel yellow eyes. He remembered running back to Qui-Gon, how he had held his master, and Qui-Gon had smiled and had spoken about Anakin and had touched his face, and all the while Obi-Wan had felt death approaching. That moment alone, its enormity, often sent him spinning. He felt justified laying motionless under that knowledge, paralyzed by the memory, the weight crushing him.

 

His memory got blurry after that. He remembered how his master had walked away from him in the Force, his back poignant, not caring how loudly he was calling, begging him to wait. Then he had turned to the Force itself, which couldn’t be begged, he _knew_ , but still something he had thrown out in desperation had caught attention. His master’s heart stuttered and halted. If he strained over that moment, he remembered feeling calm, even bizarrely steady, because it would take the exact amount it would give. He had so much give: everything, really, if that’s what it took.

 

The searing headache always came after that point, he had learnt, sending the machines surrounding him into a beeping frenzy.  The unconsciousness followed often enough that he realized he was doing more harm than good to his recovery by trying to remember. He stopped eventually. He had promises to keep. Anakin was out there somewhere, and so was, Force forbid, the Council and the rising Dark. He had to find the way out of this personal darkness of his before it was too late. And yet, despite everything, he clutched his loss to his chest with greedy hands.

 

_Attachment, the source of all misery,_ the sniping voice whispered.  

 

He was so tired of his own company.

 

Eventually, after a handful of humdrum days and nights, came the morning the tube was pulled out of his throat. Obi-Wan knew it was morning because the ventilation had kicked up up a notch. There were more footsteps in the corridor behind his door, and the humanoid guy came to release him from the tube and went, smelling strongly of fresh caf (the things he would do for a cup of caf, and he didn’t even care for the drink). It was the weirdest, when your throat wanted to convulse and your pharynx gag, but no reaction came from your actual body whatsoever.

 

Still, the feeling of fresher (even if slightly caffeinated) air in his lungs was wonderful. It was such a fundamental relief that Obi-Wan nearly missed his door opening and closing the second time.

 

Somebody new was in the room, he realized belatedly. The footsteps didn’t match Togruta, human, or any of the other healers. He tried to push his body to react, to tense. The voice woke up once again, nagging about something at the back of his mind, but he ignored it. He had enough problems with the coma and headaches; he didn’t need to add frigging hallucinations, thank you very much.

 

Then that somebody dragged a chair next to his bed, sat down and cleared his throat. He knew that sound. It was the rare tell that Qui-Gon Jinn was feeling uncomfortable about the situation.

 

A feather light touch on his clavicle where his padawan braid rested. “Padawan,” almost inaudibly, and the world shattered and reorganized itself once more.   

 

***

 

If his outward appearance had matched to his state of mind, Obi-Wan would have laughed as tears streamed down his face. He would have crawled from the bed and into Qui-Gon’s arms and just listened his heart to thud on. He would have stayed there for a millennium or two, trials and knighthood and chosen ones and the Code be damned.

 

In his current state he couldn’t even lift a finger. It was something he had spent a few days with, trying and without except failing. Just to make his finger twitch. To lift a finger, to convey even in that minuscule way that he was so relieved to know his master still continued to exist in this galaxy. That Obi-Wan’s world would keep turning.

 

“I’m supposed to talk to you. It should contribute to your recovery,” Qui-Gon stated. _My lightsaber for a chance to answer_ , Obi-Wan thought.

 

“I must admit, it’s quite -- “ a pause, “ --- jarring. To see you here so inert and barely being able to feel you in the Force.”

 

Oh, that was true. The Force hadn’t returned with Qui-Gon. Somehow those two losses were so intertwined in Obi-Wan’s mind that he had half in earnest waited it to happen. Well, if that was all he had to give up to get his master back and breathing, Obi-Wan paid the price with good grace. What was a Jedi without the Force, Qui-Gon had asked him on Obi-Wan’s fifteenth birthday. The answer was still a Jedi, obviously, so he would find his path when he woke up if his situation remained the same. He was aware of the effusive optimism comically rushing back to him, but he was so fraught he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

_It was something I was able to do, that’s all,_ Obi-Wan thought.

 

“They think it’s not safe to break the cover yet, not until you stabilize further.” _The cover?_ Obi-Wan filed that one away to meditate later. Qui-Gon continued. “That’s where your focus should be, padawan, to stabilize yourself. What you did was…”

 

A longer pause, and then the chair screeched abruptly against the floor. Obi-Wan more felt than heard his master standing up.

 

“This is pointless, isn’t it?” Qui-Gon muttered to himself. He made a small, indecisive movement towards the door. The indecision, more than anything else, told Obi-Wan how rattled his master was.

 

_No, don’t you dare, you need to stay and convince me that this is real, I swear I’ll find the way to break through this, you_ _have to hear me, you don’t get to toss me aside in panic_ ** _again_** _._ Obi-Wan thought so fast the words jumbled together in his mind, surprising himself with his own bitterness. He plunged against the cold, starless space inside his eyelids in a way he hadn’t had the energy to do in days.

 

Qui-Gon took a deep breath and tapped the bed lightly. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, and Obi-Wan heard the door opening. A short conversation followed, voices pitched so low he couldn’t distinguish the individual words. To his enormous relief, his master returned to the chair, appearing more like his serene self.

 

“I apologize for that, padawan mine.” Obi-Wan’s heart should have skipped a beat at that, instead of continuing its steady pace. “It won’t happen again. When you wake up, you and me are going to have a conversation about this self-sacrificing, unacceptably reckless streak of yours.”

 

_You think I wouldn’t continue comatose just to skip one of your edification lectures,_ Obi-Wan smirked mentally.  

 

Qui-Gon sighed. “I find I don’t know where to start. Do you mind if we just...sit like this?”

  
_It’s not like we have had any luck with words lately, master,_ Obi-Wan thought, but it was more resigned, less bitter. The silence fell, not so resonantly empty anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

The clanking of the gimer stick rang ahead of its owner. Qui-Gon’s grandmaster meant to announce his presence rather than to sneak upon them. Qui-Gon wasn’t surprised. The Council had summoned him twice this week, and he had promptly ignored both comms.

 

It was late at night, and Yoda’s eyes gleamed with curiosity when the ancient master knocked the door open with his stick and saw the changes Qui-Gon had made. He sighed inwardly. His grandmaster was like an akk pup about secrets and puzzles: the small troll sank his teeth into them and didn’t relent under any circumstances.

 

Qui-Gon bowed deep with his upper body but didn’t rise from the chair.

 

“My padawan can sleep in a monarchs’ silks as well as in mud during a sleet storm, but the artificial light has always been more difficult to him. It took time to learn how to deal with longer hyperspace travels,” Qui-Gon offered an explanation as Yoda, aided by the Force surge, hopped to the foot of Obi-Wan’s bed. For one wild second, Qui-Gon thought his padawan would react to the surprising weight on his calves.

 

“When having visions, he is not, you mean.” Yoda peered at the young man, a knight really, in a warm light. Qui-Gon had turned off the artificial ceiling lamps and fetched an ornamental Alderaanian lantern from their quarters. The bed and its occupant glowed in orange hues while shadows lurked at the corners of the room.

 

“Sentimental you have become in your old age, hmmm?” Yoda queried. Qui-Gon kept his gaze at his padawan’s face. He was banishing nightmares, it didn’t matter whose they were.

 

The light softened Obi-Wan’s freckles and cast shadows underneath his eyelashes. He looked peaceful and out of this realm. Qui-Gon almost envied him. Peace eluded him these days, no matter how much he tried to find equilibrium in the Living Force.  

 

“Words you have to use, grandpadawan,” Yoda admonished, not unkindly. The nomination told Qui-Gon this was more about lineage matters and less about official Council affairs. It shouldn’t have stung to accept the gesture. “Questions I sense, flashing in your presence, like tiddlers in a stream.”

 

Qui-Gon knew he had always been headstrong to the point where he banged his head (sometimes literally) against his challenges, doubts and fears. Why stop at near-death experience? Still, he was dog tired of clashing with this particular recurring fear.

 

“How was it, when the Council arrived at the Naboo?” Qui-Gon asked after a long silence. “Apparently none of the locals dared to approach the power plant until you arrived. Were there any signs, any imprints of --” his voice turned to a croak, “ -- that I’m once again losing a padawan to the Dark.” Qui-Gon shook himself internally. “The healers told me time and time again they detected nothing like that when Obi-Wan was brought in, and I don’t sense anything, but I fail to understand the alternative. What he did shouldn’t be possible. And my carelessness was the cause.”

 

He meant to say Force-driven obsession, he truly did, but it sounded dangerously like shirking from responsibility behind Force’s back.  

 

Yoda seemed to shrink a little, like someone let the air out from the small master. “Dealt with the absolutes for a long time, we have. Taught us nothing, the past has. Fools it may very well make us, when again Sith are emerging from the oblivion,” he mumbled, and Qui-Gon felt something pushing at his shields. He opened to it, and the memory imprinted on his mind.

 

_The power station was humming with raw energy, covered in it as if a mirage. There was nothing elegant about it, and yet its pattern seemed to evade naming and deconstruction. The Force sounded like it would have screamed, and then it stuck in one unending note, prolonging and wailing. It ached his teeth and old joints to walk through it, and he saw Plo Koon duck his head and shove at the empty air up front. Two figures reposed at the centre of the phenomenon, the smaller and more slender one collapsed on top of the taller. The blistering, unfamiliar power emitted from them in waves, to the rhythm of a throbbing heartbeat._

 

Qui-Gon emerged from the memory by drawing a sharp breath. He enfolded the relative calm of the night time Temple around himself in the Living Force and willed his own heartbeat to slow down. Yoda had leaped down from the bed and was now squinting at him in turn.

 

“What was that?” Qui-Gon asked, bewildered.

 

“Something different, this is. A completely balanced moment in the Force. An enforced vergence, if you will,” Yoda hobbled back to the door.

 

The small master stopped at the threshold. His ears drooped, which Qui-Gon hadn’t seen often. “Sowing changes and ruptures, things unheard of in a millennia, young Anakin is only by emerging,” Yoda muttered. He turned and pointed at Qui-Gon with his claw.

 

“You, time to end this vigil, it is. On his deathbed, your padawan anymore lays not. Need to be reminded you of your duties, master Jinn, you do not, hmmm? Seek out master Windu and young Anakin,” the troll commanded in imperative tones.

 

“I was under the impression to keep the respectful traditional distance, considering that the bond is still so new between master and padawan,” Qui-Gon answered mildly. He hadn’t obliged, naturally, checking on Anakin with the Force every now and then, but the Council didn’t need to know that.  Despite that, his almost compulsive dedication to making Anakin his own padawan had dwindled since he woke up dripping with bacta slime. The momentum in the Force had shifted. Yet another puzzle, another let down. And the Council _had_ accepted the boy now, hadn’t it?

 

Yoda snorted and took his leave. “Out, seek them!” carried from the corridor.

 

Qui-Gon exhaled through his nose and turned his attention to his dormant padawan. He knew his earlier gnawing suspicions had no evidence, and in his heart he couldn’t believe himself, but Xanatos cast an exhaustingly long shadow. It had been easier to turn to the old fears in doubt and confusion and hurt, and he recognized the need to meditate.

 

The healers had emphasized the importance of talk. Despite the gaping distance between master and padawan, speaking helped (although Qui-Gon suspected it was more on his behalf than Obi-Wan’s). But talk had never been the easiest thing between them, diplomatics, bickering and teaching aside, especially during the last few months, when they had been running ragged in the aftershocks of Yinchorr. They understood each other best by moving in kata together, fighting together, soaring in the Force side by side. They gave small gifts, did everyday, trivial things for each other without the need of speaking, which now seemed like overlooked pearls.    

 

He reached for Obi-Wan, more to reassure himself than in waiting any answer. His padawan’s presence flicked to him like a tiny dot of beacon lighting at the stormy ocean horizon. The bond laid silent and dense.

 

It was time to seek out those whose help was within his reach (and of the troll’s meddling).

 

***

 

Jedi weren’t the most prone to gossip, and though many of them had seen astounding things out in the vast Galaxy, the asymmetric pair nonetheless drew attention. The revered Head of the Order strode in with the usual stern look on his face. Behind him skittered a tanned, tiny initiate, who struggled with a large basket full of uprooted plants.

 

“Don’t they have better things to do?” Anakin muttered under his breath when a couple of bystanders started to murmur in hushed tones. He knew he should release his annoyance to the Force, like they had practised during the last few days while rearranging master Windu’s apartment. It had been nothing like Anakin had imagined. It was small and cramped, with green plants and herbs occupying every possible surface. Winter sunlight and dust were everywhere. When he asked about the plants, the master had cast him an inscrutable look and said, “Everybody wants to give me plants for some reason.”

 

It was hard for him even in calmer surroundings, this sitting still and quieting his mind, but now he tasted soil in his mouth, he was out of breath, and he had a distinct feeling that if he stuck his tongue out, some younger onlookers would escape screaming. It was _impossible_ to concentrate.

 

“It’s because of me. I’m so tall and handsome,” master Windu interrupted Anakin's spiralling thoughts. Not a muscle moved on his face, but the tenuous bond between them quivered with amusement. Anakin spluttered.

 

“Enjoy the view with me for a moment,” master Windu said decidedly, steering them off from the hubbub of the main avenue. They ended up at one of the many balconies overlooking the south bank of the city. Air traffic zigzagged above them, winter light catching the metal in wings, racks and fastenings in quick flashes. Anakin felt a pang of longing.

 

Master Windu glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Are you aware of my political status, young one?”

 

Anakin only nodded. The memory of standing in front of them all, confused and rejected, was still sore.

 

“Then you must realize that an apprenticeship under me gives you a certain… visibility not only here in the Temple, but even more so there, outside. The padawan of the council member must learn to be discreet, and learn it quickly.”

 

Once again Anakin felt the chasm between him and those raised in the Temple. It included, he understood with sudden clarity, the council member who was supposed to become his _master_ master. And that was the root of their doubt in him.  He knew he had to choose his next words carefully or it might blow up in his face. The  nine-year-old bit his lip and concentrated hard.

 

“I know that I should put my earlier life behind me. You all think it’ll be a distraction.” He waited for a moment, but the objection did not come. It was the honesty he had learned to expect during the last few days. Anakin straightened his shoulders under the weight of the basket.

 

“But I can also rely on my earlier life. A slave learns from a young age to be discreet and effective. You want to avoid punishment, or harsh words, or refusal of food. I know how to make myself invisible,” he recited in a neutral voice. _I don’t want to be invisible anymore, though,_ the small voice inside him whispered. He hid it deep. The short silence fell.

 

“A facet to consider,” master Windu concluded, looking over the city. “Come along then, young one. Jo-Siu-Ah, the head gardener, is among the most patient of us, but let’s not test him.”

 

***

 

It wasn’t possible to have this much water in the world. It was everywhere _,_ sloshing, rippling, gurgling in canals, fountains and ponds. The air itself hung heavy like a soggy cloak. It was utterly beautiful and stupefying and the sheer _waste_ of it made Anakin sick to his stomach. He staggered and almost fell to the moss and felt a tendril of Force supporting him like a broad warm hand on the small of his back.

 

“The Room of a Thousand Fountains, the apple of master Jo-Siu-Ah’s eye,” master Windu called, already well ahead on the path.

 

The winding path took them to a small meadow among the giant, moss-covered trees. A shallow, calm pool with a sand bottom twinkled at Anakin. And on the left side, on the grass, knelt a tall figure, meditating. “Master Qui-Gon!” he breathed.

 

***

 

“Stop, young one,” Mace commanded when the child seemed ready to abandon the basket and sprint. “You have a responsibility. I trusted the small, menial life forms to your care. Take care of your duties first. Master Jo-Siu-Ah is not far. Run along the path and look for him among the Malreaux rose bushes. Make sure you deliver them unharmed, and then you can go.” The boy darted.

 

Mace Windu elected to stay in the background for a while. He stood hands clasped together and watched how Anakin hurried back, basketless, and threw himself at Qui-Gon Jinn, who welcomed the child with open arms despite the interrupted meditation. Anakin’s little, fierce being in the Force vibrated from the release of long-standing stress. The boy had focused all his willpower on surviving and adapting to an ambiguous environment for days now, always on his toes. He felt a wave of _safe, calm, relax_ Qui-Gon directed at the boy. Another one, far more precise and short, was directed at him and exuded reproach.

 

Mace nodded, accepted the rebuke and released it to the Force. It was a part of why they were here. Qui-Gon spoke to the child in his lap, and Anakin answered in a more melodious tone, the maverick’s long, graying hair falling like a curtain to shelter them. Mace raised his face to the Garden’s Living Force. It felt languid, speckled with light, almost playful. He was out of his element here in the Room, had always been, but could understand why his friend was so enamored of it after all these years.

 

Light footsteps announced a deeply familiar presence in the Force behind him. A woman came to stand next to him, and raised one elegant eyebrow at the sight of the unusually emotional display in front of them, but didn’t comment. Her presence reminded Mace of the stream: clear, invigorating, a hint of a murmuring laugh of water. A counterpoint to his fire, as it has been a long time.

 

“Master,” Depa Billaba acknowledged and bowed her head. “Padawan,” he replied, allowing a fleeting moment of privacy. He detected a trickle of joviality from the young council member.

 

Qui-Gon nudged Anakin from his lap and the boy realised there was someone new in their company. He stood up and bowed hastily, but with grace. “Anakin, meet master Depa Billaba, a member of the Council and a former padawan of mine,” Mace explained as they approached the pair. Qui-Gon raised his brows for the last addition.

 

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Anakin said politely. “The pleasure is mine,” Depa answered. “Would you humor me, young one?” she continued. “I happen to know you’re from the desert planet, and my home planet isn’t that far. I’ve always enjoyed this place since I arrived the Temple. Join me in dabbling?”

 

“Not smooth, Mace,” Qui-Gon muttered under his breath when twosome was removing their shoes on the shore. Anakin’s face lit up with careful wonder. He seemed unaware of the fact that two council members and one master all took their precious time for him.

 

“Seeking solutions, it always isn’t,” Mace shrugged.

 

“You’re adapting troll’s speech. They should separate you two for a while.”

 

Mace huffed and rubbed the loosening scabs. “I still can’t believe I managed to persuade him and the rest of the Council into this.”

 

“Into what? Stealing one’s claimed padawans?” The accusation was without heat. To Jedi, there was no past, no grudges, no things to unmake or avenge. Qui-Gon’s survival had hung by a thread. There was a brief flare of sadness and concern, tucked away in the heaving of the Force nearly before it had time to register. Still, it was quite an exposition from the other master. Mace sent a flickering thought towards the healing facilities.    

 

Mace folded his hands into the opposite sleeves and smoothed his face at once. “You know fully well that the bond is not properly in place. Not yet. Because I have a proposal of an… unorthodox nature.” That earned him a sharp look from the cerulean eyes.

 

“Mimban skies are finally cleared? Jedi got an unlimited current account from the Senate? Mace Windu comes to me with an unorthodox proposition.”

 

Mace chose to overlook the jibe and lowered his voice. “When you died - and you were dead for a moment, Qui-Gon - I’ve never felt a shatterpoint of that magnitude. Like a shatterpoint in the future itself. Your death was as if a huge stone were thrown into the pond of the future, emitting Dark in circles. Then your padawan did whatever insane and teetering thing he did, and you were back from the Force, and it was slightly better, but only just. The Dark still spread.”

 

Mace stopped and gathered his thoughts, knowing this time it was he who was broadcasting. “It was... I don’t know what I felt, what Yoda felt. There was a quietness in the Force where once had rung tens of thousands of lives. Tens of thousands, Qui-Gon. How do you sleep with a thousand deaths in your head? I know I haven’t, not after that.”

 

Mace had to make the maverick master to understand.

 

“It wasn’t until we attained a decision to keep Anakin among us - and not only among us, but close - when it stopped. Yoda says the future feels confused. Like someone would have taken a bucket of pebbles and tossed them into the pond. His words, not mine. But until we can see a brighter path, I will continue to keep it very confused.”

 

He felt Qui-Gon’s reserve. “What you’re actually suggesting? To keep the future… bamboozled?”

 

“You sound like an impertinent padawan.” Mace hurried to continue. “If - and that’s a big if - the child really is the Chosen one, he needs all the connections he can get. The shatterpoint was clear: had you died, or taken the boy alone as your padawan, possibly away from the Order, he would have latched himself onto very few people. Attached himself the worst possible way. The consequences were beyond imagination. The rise of the Darkness like never before. Consider his background, the trauma, the attachments he’s already formed. He needs people around him, Qui-Gon, as many as I can spare. A sense of belonging, if you want to be unorthodox. There’s a saying in Haruun Kal: it takes a village to raise a child.”         

 

“I assume the boy’s primal training bond stays with you?” Qui-Gon asked after a short silence, not betraying any of his thoughts.

 

“Naturally.”

 

“This is going to raise a lot of kerfuffle, you know. You’re going against the centuries of tradition, the very modern Code itself.”

 

Mace took a deep breath. “It’s not unheard of. Not when you go back in the records long enough.”

 

Qui-Gon seemed to enjoy immensely the fact that their roles were suddenly reversed in this debate. Mace grimaced.

 

“You’re always berating the Council for taking the cowardly road and not listening the Force itself. I’m not a complete goon. When the Force hits me over the head with something, I tend to listen, Qui-Gon. Even if it grates my very being.”

 

The other master nodded his head in acknowledgement. “What do you see when you look at him?” he asked.

 

Mace closed his eyes briefly. “Changes, ruptures, possibilities. He’s hurling shatterpoints in practically every direction. And the Dark is lurking. His tiny supernova attracts it like a gloomy flock of moths. We can’t eject him, not when it’s gathering strength and influence.”

 

“No wonder the Council is having cold feet. Changes, Force forbid,” Qui-Gon muttered to himself. “And beneath all that?” he prompted.

 

Mace opened his eyes. “A nine-year-old in impossible circumstances, fearful, with no means to let go. Traumatized. Brave, talented, head swimming with dreams and ambitions. Determined to do good. Radiant. So furious at the world at large, at all of its injustice and cruelty.”

 

“Sounds like somebody I knew.”

 

“Yes. And master once assured it can be honed. She never regretted it, I hope.”

 

The artificial wind rustled the leaves above them. The Force heaved, suddenly full of purpose.

 

“I’m not sure what to think about the fact that the child links so many of our habits to slavery, though,” Mace said wryly. Qui-Gon snorted.

 

“We are nothing but the humble servants of the Light, I’m afraid. Maybe our combined efforts will make him see beyond that.”

 

Mace felt like a gundark had lifted from his shoulders. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced all that much since he had been raised to the Council. A minor, victorious note sang in the Force like a single, golden trumpet sound. It bursted into a million little mottles when a swimming class of the tiny crechelings was led to the open. Suddenly the air filled with laughter and excitement, the pond’s calm surface forcefully broken. A look of alarm flashed over Anakin’s face.

 

“Must everything be an evaluation to you, Mace?”

 

“It has been a long time since I last had a padawan learner, but not that long.”

 

They settled down to observe.

 

***      

 

“Can somebody refuse to be someone’s padawan?”

 

The question was brusque, Anakin knew, but he really couldn’t figure out a better way to ask it. He always ruffled somebody’s feathers, first on Tatooine, now here. And maybe master Windu was rubbing off on him. He wasn’t that dumb; he had noticed how master Windu had introduced this woman, the easy way they existed in each other’s space.

 

He had refused to indulge himself; a vague sense of guiltiness had implanted his butt onto the moist sand.

 

Master Billaba waded in front him and the small maelstroms of golden sand rose in her wake. She turned and cast a reproachful look at him. It was somehow worse than master Windu and master Qui-Gon in total. She was so calm, so collected… and Anakin wanted her to smile, just a little. She reminded him of Padme.

 

“Yes child. One should not enter to a sacred bond between teacher and apprentice without careful consideration. It happens more often than you think.”

 

Anakin doodled on the sand. He wasn’t looking up and didn’t see how the look shifted on Depa’s face. “Are you having doubts, child?”

 

“I know he’s your master and everything, and I don’t mean to sound rude.” The boy’s ears reddened. “I just… sometimes he makes me feel like I’m dirt at the bottom of his shoe, and other times he’s scared of me, but other times he looks at me like… like I’m worth something. Like I mean something. Like I surprise him.”

 

Master Billaba chuckled wryly at his statement. “That’s master for you. Trust me, every single padawan feels like that from time to time.”

 

“What’s it like? Having him as a master?”

 

“Don’t you think my answer might be a bit biased?”

 

“Master Q- Jinn says even false information is better than none before entering into a situation, and that I should trust my instincts to parse the false from the truth, because falsehood always covers something.”

 

An elegant brow rose again. “Good, child. Well. He will always be honest with you. To the point where it hurts like a draigon's breath, but it may as well be your lifeline. He’s very reluctant to let you carry any of his burdens, but you end up doing that anyway because you want to. He’s strict, he’s demanding to the point of being unfair.  He always expects the high heavens from you. There’s this fire in him, it burns and cleanses if you do wrong. If he lets you warm up in his presence, you’ll never be cold or indifferent again.”

 

The boy’s mouth hang slightly open. He corrected himself hastily when Depa waved a little. “I’m sorry. That’s… a lot to take in.”

 

“I can imagine.”

 

The boy glanced at the shore where two masters were deep in conversation. “You bet they are deciding this for me right now out of earshot,” he muttered.

 

“We masters are patronizing that way. You need to understand that once you accept the bond, utter obedience is expected from you both in principle and in practice.”

 

A daredevil sense of humor suddenly reared its head. “Maybe I announce to them I want _you_ to be my future master. That serves them right. You’re calmer and more beautiful than them,” the boy grinned.

 

Depa had to rein in her smile. It wasn’t hard - she was a master after all - but she did let her laugh out when the boy clamped his hand over his mouth and looked absolutely mortified. Oh, Mace and Jinn definitely didn’t have a clue on what they were agreeing to with this little Hothead. He was nothing like the Temple-breds, every feeling and mortification so blatant on his face. She withdrew from her prudent probing. _So different,_ she mused, slightly imperious. _They are going to bicker over him like a divorced couple._

 

“I think they actually have something a little more eccentric in mind for you, young one, if I’m reading my master correc --- “

 

A loud shriek interrupted Depa’s words. Anakin spun, ready to defend her, which, sweet, really, but it was a horde of five-year-olds, and the boy got muddled.

 

All at once there were splashes and little bodies and water kicking everywhere, and Depa watched the reaction with a careful eye.

 

“They learn so much from so young,” Anakin whispered when they tactically retreated. “They _get_ so much. All this water. I wish every child in Tatooine had this. I wish everything wasn’t so unfair.”

 

_Oh,_ Depa thought. _He’s been self-conscious, for once. It’s like a grandmaster Tra’saa narrated._ She felt an unexpected urge of protectiveness.

 

“I’m stealing your padawan, at his request,” she declared to the approaching pair and heard Anakin squeaking.   

 

***

 

Qui-Gon started with Jedi philosophers both master and padawan liked and moved on to the ones they had dissenting opinions on. Obi-Wan argued with him in his thoughts, not that Qui-Gon hadn’t heard most of his arguments ages ago. “It’s refreshing to ponder over master Bitana without the continuous stream of impertinences.” _Just because you can’t sense something doesn’t mean it's not there._

 

His master’s reading voice had always been appealing to him, deep and melodic. Its undercurrent spoke of campfires and drums and starlit nights.

 

Qui-Gon visited his bedside daily. That in itself made Obi-Wan suspicious of the Council’s ostensible gift; it spoke of attachment, reeked of it in the eyes of the more conservative Order members. They presumed Obi-Wan was unconscious, after all. His condition was quite stable nowadays. There was no strict need for this, like Yoda had pointed out. Yet here his master was, reading, every day for an hour or two at least, and Obi-Wan’s heart filled with gratitude.  

 

_You’re a charity case,_ the voice hissed. _Be grateful he finds time for you between prepping the Wonder boy._

 

_Go sit in a corner or something more productive,_ he hissed back and determinedly turned his focus elsewhere.   

 

His condition really was solid. Like a rock is solid and kriffing unchangeable to the human eye. He thought he had bypassed these sorts of trials, but apparently this wasn’t the case. Attachment, dependent, his inner bully murmured a tad smugly. You failed the last one, didn’t you? You couldn’t let him go. You still think you should solve every possible wrong in the universe, even by getting yourself preposterously killed. Maybe you don’t wake up before you finally learn that particular lesson.

 

_I did it to save him._

 

_You were saving yourself, your world, not him,_ the voice taunted.

 

Was it all about attachment or pride though? He was _pretty_ positive that the Force didn’t grant him any favors just because it was _he_ who was asking, no matter how convinced he was to right the wrongs, the mere thought laughable. Obi-Wan was also sure, after hours spent in a quiet meditation he would have sacrificed no other being for the sake of his master. If the situation had demanded an offering like that, or even the faintest possibility of harming other beings, he wouldn’t have done it. But without the Force, its luminous acceptance or immeasurable rejection, he couldn’t be sure. He was left to wring his hands (mentally), thoughts going in endless circles, without clarity and reassurance.

 

Because if it wasn’t attachment, and it wasn’t self-importance, then what was it, this thing he didn’t dare to name?

 

It was a relief when Qui-Gon arrived that morning and broke the cycle. Obi-Wan soon realized that the master was in the one of his moods. He had chosen something new to read, some Jedi poet from ages and ages ago, and halted his reading out loud between poems and even between stanzas to ponder in silence. Nevertheless, the erratic reading soothed Obi-Wan. His tired mind started to wander.     

 

“ _Just by itself_

_the last winter days passed_

_And the spring arrived_

_when I didn’t expect it to_

 

_Spring opens like a blade here --- “_

 

Silence.

 

“Did you and me ever discuss how we see each other in the Force?” Qui-Gon asked quietly. Obi-Wan was deeply familiar with a faraway look which he just knew was on his master’s face. He arose from the lull the poems had lured him into.

 

“You’re like the first, unforeseen warm day in spring. Everything comes to life all at once in fierceness, yet everywhere the light is ethereal, dancing, weightless. Much like your ataru. I’m looking forward to seeing those both again.”

 

The thing he didn’t dare to name rose to his throat. _You make me sound like I’m covered in hypergems,_ he tried to joke it down. Qui-Gon’s voice got even more subdued.

 

“You came to me as an unexpected spring day, padawan.”

 

The unnamed thing tried to claw its way out of his throat.  

 

_Thunder hiding at the mountains,_ he thought quickly. _Light in the vast pinewood, in a high altitude. Serene. Unfaltering. (Home.)_

 

Qui-Gon closed the actual real book with a small clap. “The Council has given us a mission.”

 

_About time,_ Obi-Wan thought. _Just surprised it didn’t happen sooner._  

“It shouldn’t take long, a week or two. It’s more for education purposes. Mace’ll be pleased to get the boy out of his nonexistent hair for a moment.”

 

_What,_ Obi-Wan thought distractedly. _Are you talking about Anakin? What’s master Windu got to do with him?_

 

“Healer Onossa  promised me biweekly comm updates about your condition. I expect you up and perky by the time we come back. Your knighting ceremony is already delayed as it is.”

 

_Don’t do anything I would do, master. One inexplicable Force defibrillator is enough for a lifetime._ The mention of the ceremony didn’t deserve even a snide.

 

A light touch above the right ear. “This looks like a wet rat’s tail. I will fix it when we come back.”

 

***

 

Qui-Gon had been away roughly two or three days when it started. Healer Onossa came in the morning, which was unusual.

 

“It has to be done. Cut him off much longer and the withering effects start, coma or no, master Che says. We do it gradually. One blanket at the time. Baby steps, Gaor,”  she said briskly to somebody. With no more pre-warning, she settled down and got to work.

 

_Seven Siths, again?_ Obi-Wan had time to mope before a heavy healing trance descended upon him. He went down muttering under his mental breath.  

 

He woke up groggily. A rare occurrence, that, in his past life. There were lights dancing in his eyes and the whirling and the radiance made his stomach lurch queasily. _What happens if I have to throw up like this,_ he had time to think, before one vibrant dot landed between his eyes and fell apart.

 

His vision was pure light for a moment, flowing and ebbing, because _I can feel it, I can feel_ ** _it_** _,_ these never ending slides and waves and hills and valleys, this pure, soaring euphoria! And then it was over, and he was looking the world through somebody else's eyes.

 

The sand was everywhere and in his hair, in the icy wind, it sneaked inside from the collar of his new robes. It didn’t matter that it was deeply red colored, almost ruby, he hated _the feeling._ But they were doing something important here, something that mattered to him personally, so he was learning to suppress his own discomfort for the sake of a greater good.

 

They were standing at the stowage opening of a big cargo spaceship. The engines were gearing, roaring. Someone had lowered the bridge and a small group of people was approaching against the late afternoon twin suns, guarded by a few soldiers. Men, women, children, all ages, tattered clothes, gaunt faces, victims of the biting wind. They were looking up to them, to him and the towering man standing next him, whose brown cloak billowed out in the engine-raised vortex. He had the calm, unyielding look on his face and his hand curled loosely on the lightsaber’s hilt, but his eyes crinkled with kindness.

 

_Master! /Master...?_ The odd twin thought reverberated in Obi-Wan’s and the boy’s minds simultaneously. The boy’s thought sounded unsure  - Anakin’s thought? Could Qui-Gon have done it already, without telling him, without standing next to him at the knighting ceremony? Duty always came first, and he did lay motionless in the past, literally for the Order. Qui-Gon seemed paler than usual, the lines in his face more prominent. He was leaning to the right. Did the boy even notice? _Are you taking care of him, padawan?_

 

_What?_ Came the faint wondering, but something caught the boy’s attention and he dashed to meet the approaching people looking at them with unbelieving hope on their faces. A grandma had stumbled and fallen on one knee, and Anakin hurried to help. The connection cracked like black ice in a spring morning.

 

After that, the space was no longer starless. Shooting stars of the Force came and went, unreliable and capricious. Obi-Wan couldn’t control them, like a wood chip can’t control the stream where it spins. Now that the connection was there, even for a short amounts of time, it made the feel of loss during breaks anew and pervasive. He hadn’t had to use centering exercises so much since his early teenage years, rooting and rooting once again when the bitter thoughts tried to overtake his mind.  

 

Once, the current whisked him to a mind of a young initiate in a beginner Form III kata class led by master Piell. He could have whooped in relief, going through the intimately familiar sequences, if Jedi were prone to that sort of emotional display. It felt so good, to perform kata even in this odd way after days and days of immobility. He was grateful to the Force for the small mercy.

 

Another time he was following an unknown senior padawan who was roaming aimlessly in the Temple’s immense archive at dusk. Like with Anakin and the initiate, Obi-Wan couldn’t make her hear him, no matter how much noise he broadcast to the Force. She was too deep in thought, struggling with something that considered a fellow padawan. She and her master had exchanged incisive words over the issue.

 

He tried to reach the training bond every time the Force crashed in on its own whim. The bond was still there, thank the Force and stars, but it was stretched thin as it always was when they were separated to different corners of the galaxy. Qui-Gon was otherwise occupied and Obi-Wan’s grasp of the bond was so feeble it was ridiculous.

 

Once or twice he felt the Jedi master pricking his metaphorical ears up in the Force, but the reconnection was already gone by then like a shy oro wood dove. He also sensed Anakin once or twice behind Qui-Gon in the Force (in that discordant way directions existed in the Force at all) and wondered if the master shielded two bonds from another on purpose. It went against the Code in principle and in practise. It was good to know _some_ things haven’t changed in this upside-down world.

 

Bant and Garen came to visit, of course on the day when Obi-Wan didn’t catch a glimpse of the Force. They brought merriment and Temple gossip with them, and a sense of comrade that eased Obi-Wan’s aching blackness. They were also terribly busy: Bant had a whole ward under her responsibility and Garen was training for the Trials and Starfighter Corps entrance exam at the same time.

 

“Do you think he can hear us?” Garen asked, unusually hushed and downcast after he had finished an exuberant tale about Reeft’s stealthy nighttime visit to the Temple kitchens.

 

Bant was checking Obi-Wan’s charts with the medical droid and sounded absent minded. “Onossa and Gaor said they lifted most of the cover three days ago, but the changes are too subtle and irregular to draw any firm conclusions. He may be coming out of it. He may regress. They don’t have much precedent.”

 

“Can he stay like this? Forever?”

 

“Oh. Well. It’s… a possibility. The healers won’t accept it quietly, I assure you.”   

 

Obi-Wan’s Temple upbringing made sure he didn’t look at fairness and unfairness the same way as the most dwellers of the galaxy. Everything was, in the end, the will of the Force, and a Jedi can only bow, bend and adapt. Despite that, it was… unsatisfying to stagnate here for the indeterminate future while his friends made progress. He was so happy for them, of course he was. He just… needed centering exercises. He wasn’t _brooding_ **.** He certainly wasn’t giving up.  

 

Qui-Gon came back after a week and a half, his presence waking Obi-Wan from a light doze. He suspected he had overstretched his strength the last time the Force had visited because he suffered from a dull headache.

 

Qui-Gon must have come straight from the landing platform; his clothes smelled the recycled air of the spaceship. The man himself smelled of a telltale earthiness that signified a shower hadn’t been an option for a while. It was so familiar, so intimate from all their detours and peregrinations. His breathing pattern was also familiar. Qui-Gon was deep in meditation.

 

_Are you still favoring your right side? Do you still look weary? Is the boy running you around? Have you angered the Council once again? Did it ever occur to you to tell me_ **_anything_ ** _? And still here you are, straight from the landing. It doesn’t make any sense._

 

As if reflecting Obi-Wan’s restlessness, his master’s rise from the meditation was off balance. Instead of the gradual easing, Qui-Gon exhaled through his nose with a huff and rustled his traveling cloak.

 

“All the times I have seen you here, in the ward,” his master began. “And it sure tested my patience, Spitfire, how often you ended up here because of sheer bantha-headedness. It has never been good to see you vulnerable.”

 

The unnamed thing in Obi-Wan’s chest woke up, flashed it claws and purred. There was an odd ringing in his ears.  

 

“All those times, and I find my patience is now wearing thin right when you need it most. I thought, the cover gone… oh well. Forgive an old master for indulging in daydreaming during the mission. I must have imagined feeling your presence once or twice.”

 

The tinnitus strengthened, but Obi-Wan pushed it aside. _You didn’t imagine it, master. I’m almost there. You were thinking of me, searching for me during the mission? That’s reckless, you know full well you shouldn’t, no matter how mundane the duty was, the focus must be on the mission, on possible dangers._

 

_And I shouldn’t feel the way I feel about that_ **_._ **

 

Qui-Gon sighed and Obi-Wan heard him run his hand through his no doubt tangled mane. “There’s somebody who's been dying to come and see you, but I sent him to eat and shower first. Anakin is on his way now, the boy has been so worried even though you barely had time to conn--”

 

The tinnitus gushed over the edges and transformed into an ear-splitting scream.  Obi-Wan balked, tried to make himself small and harmless. The screech rose impossibly high. Everything was white for a split second, like lightning before thunder in the middle of the night.

 

_I’m sorry, master._

 

_Padawan!_

 

The starless space rose and drowned him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is a mix of Ryōkan Taigu's poem (translation by author) and snippet from Anne Carson's poem The Glass Essay.


	4. Chapter 4

He should focus on the present moment. But how could he do that, when the present moment was… _this_?

 

The golden eyes flicked for a tiny moment, always so beloved, once so acutely missed. A warning, designed for him especially. Had the years made him a creature of habit after all? Qui-Gon hadn’t realized how interwoven his and his padawans centers in the Force had become. When the other was so brutally silenced, he was off balance on his own, so used to giving strength, giving a central axis for his padawan, even comfort every now and then.

 

You can get used, and therefore overlook, to being a someone’s center. 

 

It shouldn’t be silent anymore. Healers had lifted the cover, he had been informed on their third day at the Rehabilitation Center on Vargos II. Hope had risen, he had released it, then anticipation, hope again, then worry, then impatience, Force forbid, all released, released, released until he was able to focus and guide Anakin again.

 

And now he was here, in the present, which was… _this._ The need to release continued. The Force tossed and bridled like a restive four-year-old gelding under his hands.

 

Annoyed with himself, Qui-Gon huffed and snapped himself out of it. At least Mace hadn’t lost all his brain cells to the bureaucratic balderdash. Had Anakin been solely under Qui-Gon’s care, the situation would have been so compromised that it would have made a corellian courtesan look like a maiden nun. No. That wasn’t right. It was he who was compromised. Mace would never let him hear the end of this.

 

He could sense Anakin approaching the ward. The boy was so unbearably scintillating, shadows always lurking at his heels, circulating, hungry. He didn’t have much time left with his padawan before the not-quite-his-padawan would storm in, full of questions and energy and worry.

 

He didn’t have time to explain anything to Obi-Wan before several things happened at once. Anakin appeared in the doorway, hair sticking out in all directions thanks to the hasty wash up (the boy refused showers and only grudgingly accepted sonics, period).

 

Some of the medical equipment in the room began to beep in unison. Qui-Gon barely noticed, because cultivated, long-absent voice suddenly chimed in the Force like a Temple bell, bond flaring to life: _I’m sorry, master._

 

_Padawan!_

 

His padawan had a seizure.

 

Equipments started to make a racket. Anakin gasped and withdrew against the wall. Qui-Gon jumped to his feet.

 

“Padawan! Obi-Wan! Control it!” The command was heavily infused with the Force, but it had no effect. The young man’s body convulsed, his spine forming a painful looking semi-arc, and the bond slammed shut and inert once again. Qui-Gon’s heart copied the actions.

 

The healers flooded in.

 

“ --- get the boy out of here and far away! **Now! Out!** ” The healer Gaor, a lanky lad but Force-assisted, grabbed the front of his robes and wheeled him out. Anakin was tossed unceremoniously after him and the door closed off.

 

They stared at each other in the empty corridor. Qui-Gon’s heart constricted, shutting out, out, out. The boy was breathing rapidly, eyes like saucers. “Master, what --- was it --- is mister Obi-W --- was it me? How it could be me?”

 

Qui-Gon inhaled and sunk into the Force. He should feel it, if --- but nothing cleared, the Force like black ice on a lake surface, unrelenting, reflecting only his own anxieties and fears. The bond hadn’t snuffed out. He would feel it. He had to believe it.

 

“Come. We’re better to do what they say,” he growled out, and the boy wilted, his guilt and confusion pouring out like a thick syrup.

 

Vokara Che passed them in a hurry when they made their exit.

 

***

There were no seats outside the healing ward. Jedi didn’t hover, didn’t waste their precious time in idleness, waiting and hoping. Do or not do, survive or not survive, there was no trying, no dependence. So Anakin slumped against the wall, fiddling with the hem of his initiate robes. Qui-Gon leaned on one of the high pillars, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

 

“Master Windu is coming,” he eventually told the boy, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounded. Anakin nodded without lifting his gaze from the hem. Qui-Gon could sense Mace through the floors like an approaching thundercloud. No doubt the Council member had sensed his padawan-to-be’s agitation through the tentative bond, for it was growing stronger even without the proper forming. Anakin had the knack for it, or was maybe so desperate to belong somewhere that his Force craned out at the smallest opportunity of connecting others, of feeling importance. The child could so easily burn his fingers.

 

A week spent on Vargos II and Qui-Gon was quite sure they could strengthen their temporary bond as well, given enough time and patience. And will, which he lacked. He now suspected it had something to do with the pebbles on a pond, and their endless, merging circles. The Force-urged obsession was gone. On top of that, Mace had agreed that the act itself was conflicting enough. He and Anakin shouldn’t form a proper training bond before Obi Wan’s situation cleared and his padawan would receive the position of the knight he deserved. It was yet another reminder how… compromising the current situation was.

 

He should comfort the boy. Calm him down. Offer an axis. It was just that his center was half of what it used to be and his treacherous heart leeched all the energy he would have needed to utter the words.

 

So they waited in lengthy silence as the shadows crept in.

 

Mace appeared at the other end of the waiting hall and drew close. His billowing robes (really, Mace, you carry your own personal gust?) indicated that this was Council member Windu who approached. Qui-Gon sent a quiet plea to the Force that the man would remember how to deal with a frightened charge, after spending so many years inflicting fear to the corrupted hearts of the Republic. He wasn’t sure if Mace remembered how to be anything else than intimidating.

 

Mace surprised him. The man who kneeled in the meditation position in front of Anakin and firmly guided the boy to the meditation stance wasn’t the interrupted and irate Council member. He wasn’t Champion of the Order, who sowed horror and awe at the padawans’ hearts at the salles. This was a tired and worn out Jedi who had raised his hood and hid his face at Tahl’s funeral, who had grieved for a childhood friend when the news of Xanatos’ fall had reached the Temple.  

 

On his knees, Mace still towered above the until-recently malnourished boy. When Anakin refused to meet his eyes, he lifted the boy’s chin with his saber hand. The gesture was measured without being compelling.

 

“I spoke to master Che. She told me what happened. A Jedi does not blame himself for what he cannot control, initiate. What you can control are your feelings. Those are clouding your judgement and disturbing others. Breathe, examine, let go. You are not to blame, you are to learn and control,” Mace rumbled.

 

Anakin didn’t protest, merely hiccupped a couple of times before he slowed his accelerated breathing to match Mace’s reassuring pace. Progress, it seemed, always came at a cost. Qui-Gon had a distinct feeling the Force was laughing at his expense.

 

“I was helpless. I thought Jedi never were,” Anakin whispered.

 

“‘Never’ is such a strong word. Your beliefs about yourself determine you.  You’ll adapt. You’ll learn,” Mace chastised. “I want you to go back to our quarters and start the calming sutras. I’ll follow you shortly after. I need to speak to master Jinn first.”

 

“But ---”

 

“Initiate.” Stern.

 

“Yes master.” Anakin rose and turned to face Qui-Gon. “I’msosorryidon’tknowwhathappenedbutitwasmeiknowit.”

 

“Ani, you heard master Windu. You didn’t know, I didn’t know, the healers didn’t realize. Go in peace, initiate.” Force, but it was a chore to form words and sentences.

 

Anakin bowed haphazardly, wiped his eyes, and scurried on his way. The departure left the two men to stand in silence once more.

 

“He was reflecting your inner turmoil, Qui-Gon. That’s why it was so hard on him,” Mace said after a long time. They refused to look at each other.

 

“I’m aware,” Qui-Gon answered tonelessly.

 

“You must know this has to be brought to the attention of the Council. You should at least consider the mind healers.”

 

“I should have considered a lot of things.”

 

Mace tossed his hood back from his face. “Enough of this pity party.”

 

Qui-Gon felt his blood run cold. “I’m not the one who’s running to the Council to snitch on his own padawan!”

 

“You are the last person to talk about conflicting loyalties!”

 

“What if it was Depa?” He wasn’t even sure whether he meant the sickbed or the alarming show of uncontrolled power, or both.

 

“You don’t want to go down that road.” _You know you’ll lose the contest of dutifulness every time_.

 

Release, calm, center, an audible hiss of breath through his teeth. “What did Che have to tell?”

 

“They didn’t consider the boy’s abilities when they granted visiting permission. Anakin’s shield training has become of the utmost importance. The Force-burns that your padawan is enduring are still too raw to handle that kind of presence. Especially when Anakin has no idea what he’s doing most of the time. It was a brand into an already burned skin. They think it’s disaster averted right now.”

 

 _If -- When you wake up, I won’t even know what misstep from my part to apologize anymore. What a lousy keeper of light I am,_ Qui-Gon thought.

 

“Stop it,” Mace said roughly. “He’ll bounce back through sheer perseverance if any of your teachings have penetrated his thick skull.”

 

“He’s resilient.”

 

“Keep telling yourself that until you believe it. Excuse me, I have to take care of a distressed initiate.”   

 

Qui-Gon didn’t imitate Anakin and slump against the wall after Mace had took his leave, but the desire was there.

 

***

 

Anakin’s nails dug into his palms.

 

He was supposed to _help_ **.** All the Jedi were. He was so grateful to the masters, he truly was, that they had arranged the mission on Vargos and he had seen the seeds of hope. But there was always something or someone resisting and pulling back. Council, bureaucrats, corrupted rulers, Senate (all the politicians and terms and divisions and sections came together under that one term in his mind). Jedi were no miracle workers, he had learned.

 

In the end, he was the one resisting and pulling back. One step forward, two steps back. He took all their tests, attended all their lessons: some advanced, but most well below his age group. Much of it was due the fact that he still struggled a lot with the academic Basic. And it was slowly dawning to him that he didn’t know _how_ to learn something when he wasn’t moving and exploring at the same time. He tried to blend in, tried to become invisible once more, but it wasn’t working. They were always watching and whispering, and he knew his-master-to-be was aware. Jedi were no miracle workers when it came to Anakin, _shag tuta Tatooine_ either.

 

They tried, the masters, he knew. But master Windu was fighting with the Council, and he was quite sure that hadn’t been the case before he came along. He was sure he had interrupted something equivalent to a shouting match between master Windu and master Yoda in their quarters two days ago, which, to Jedi masters, involved a lot of quiet glaring.

 

The green troll had grabbed his chin before he took his leave, long claws verging on painful. Anakin didn’t like the way his frightened face reflected in those enormous eyes. “Hmmmph,” Yoda had muttered before going on his way.

 

Master Windu had looked dazed and disbelieving, the same look his mother had when he had done something unbelievably reckless at the pod race.   

 

He didn’t like master Yoda very much. He felt like an owner, not a master (he reminded himself of the difference every day).   

 

And master Qui-Gon worried himself sick about his real padawan, although he shielded it from him. He didn’t need to feel it in the Force to recognize it: the look on master Qui-Gon’s face was the look of a slave whose loved one was fading away under an unfair workload and the merciless desert suns.      

 

The Force did a small signature nudge every time he thought of Obi-Wan Kenobi. He had gone and hurt the older padawan, who was so important to master Qui-Gon, who really seemed like a heartfelt young man like his mother had appraised ---

 

Calming sutra. Opening of lotus, like opening oneself to the Force. The repetition of unfolding petals.

 

The bond quivered. His-master-to-be was coming back to h--- their quarters. His smaller bedroom, more like a cupboard really, but he didn’t mind. His bed, his desk.

 

He hadn’t put the caf machine on. His cloak laid in the middle of the floor. He hadn’t even switched the lights on. It was too late to do anything about the angry red welts on his palms.

 

Once, when Anakin was seven, a travelling circus had found its way to Mos Espa, of all places. It was a dingy and small caravan traveling around a few solar systems in the Outer Rims. Of course it caught his and his friends’ attention, and they sneaked out that evening after latemeal.

 

Anakin had regretted their adventure almost immediately after they had managed to get through the temporary fence. The very air - he didn’t know it was the Force he was sensing at the time - around the bright-colored tents had stunk of suffering and fear with so many more or less sentient species caged, hurt, and denied their natural surroundings. It had made his head swim like he had inhaled spice. He had panicked and run, but wasn’t looking ahead and had barged into a sabercat’s cage. The picture of the haunted, near-starved, yet still majestic animal had seared itself into his memory.

 

Master Windu reminded him of the sabercat when he opened the door and sat down heavily on the couch. Anakin knew it was deliberate. He had learned the master could move noiselessly despite his state of mind.

 

“You know, young one, that I should never teach you vaapad, even though it’s my heart’s kata?” master Windu asked. “What _is_ it with you and the dark corners?” he continued more to himself and waved his hand. The blinds turned open, revealing the glittering mat that was Coruscant by night.

 

Anakin pouted. It was one of his many tells as master Kayl had undertaken to constantly remind him during the past few weeks. What’s vaapad got to do with anything? There had to be a catch, there was always a catch with masters.

 

“I’m too old and started too late?” he ventured.

 

Master Windu scowled at him, and he could feel the heat across the room. “Cut out the  downplaying. It’s far too late. The battle master speaks well of you, and after tonight’s show time you really have nothing to base it on. You splintered the burnout coma of the century with those abilities of yours.”

 

“But I didn’t even do anything! I never meant--!”

 

“Precisely. Be quiet now, young one, and focus **.** Why I should never teach you vaapad?”

 

Master Windu never interrupted him. Something was definitely off. The darkness coiled.

 

It was so _unfair_ **.** He had never meant any harm. He didn’t even understand what had happened! Anakin bit his lower lip until he tasted the salty sting of blood.

 

“Because I can’t control my powers, and the vaapad in and itself is based on unpredictability. It relies on maladji--- maladjustment of the dark side. It would be too much of a danger for me,” he finally choked out. He was bitterly glad he had paid attention in master Drellig’s class.

 

Master Windu’s eyes were inscrutable. “You’re making me repeat myself. You’ll learn. You’ll master the control eventually. If the old maverick is right, you may even balance it one day. This is not about your lack of control.”

 

How the salt stung. “It’s about the fear again,” Anakin whispered.

 

The Haruun Kal master leaped like a cat of prey. In next to no time he was in front of Anakin. The dark eyes gleamed, and Anakin had to suppress a wince.

 

“Yes. But not precisely about your own fear. You’ll learn to control it too, if you allow yourself to let go of your old hauntings. This is about circumstances. A Jedi will never, ever be able to control everything around him, only himself. If he succumbs to this fear, if he blames himself for the things outside of his control, he will seek the means to rule that are **not** for us, and endangers themself and all around them.”

 

“What it is to be afraid of himself. What it is to be feared for something you can’t control. It’s the loneliest place.”

 

The impetuous turn of conversation left Anakin reeling. “I’m not… I … how … is this about you being the Head of the Council, master?”

 

“When I was six years old, I had my first experience of shatterpoint.”

 

The unfamiliar word with hidden meanings hung in the air.

 

“Shatterpoint is a Force ability. A Force user can see the fault lines, the breaking points, the weaknesses in gentlebeings or happenings. If the user is strong enough, he can influence them. It can forge new pathways or close even the most prominent ones to the future.”

 

“Imagine then, that you’re six years old, and you can suddenly name every weaknesses of everyone around you, other children and adult alike. Yourself alike. You can suddenly see everything that is wrong in this world, every fault, every fracture, every injustice, but you’re way too young and inexperienced to do anything about it, or control your goddamn brassy mouth.”

 

Anakin could almost see the shadow of a prancing predator behind the master.

 

“You understand,” Anakin whispered.

 

“I understand anger intimately, the way most Jedi will never have to. I was a seething child, unpopular, judged to be a lost cause, so sharp-edged that anybody who dared to approach me got cut. Not a clue what to do with myself or the world at large. If my master hadn’t seen through all that…”     

 

“That’s why, when I shouldn’t teach you vaapad, young Skywalker, you will learn vaapad some day even if it’s the last thing I do in this godsforsaken galaxy. Your circumstances may be shadowed, but you will learn control, not fear,” the Haruun Kal Jedi practically growled. Anakin got impression that this conversation was but a continuum from some earlier encounter.   

 

He had forgotten to breathe, and his lunges suddenly reminded him he needed oxygen to survive. He swallowed, and it made a clicking sound.

 

“I would need you to be my guarding fire against the shadows then, wouldn’t I, my master?” he asked, forcing the fear of rejection down to his throat. He had never in his life sounded this formal; if this wasn’t the Jedi’s precious prescience speaking, a bantha could bite him in the ass. He had an unnerving feeling that both master Windu and the big shadow cat behind him had stopped everything else and stared at him in unison. Then the predator bent its head as if chastised, and master Windu picked his smaller hands in his, mindful of the welts.

 

“Anakin Skywalker, you honor me with your decision. I’m jubilant to call you my padawan. Let us remember this as a moment of healing and learning, not of anger and old failings.” Gentle Force healing seeped into his hands and warmed them. The Force took an anchor point from the protective touch and expanded between them from there, thickening, definite.

 

Feelings and images rushed through him, unnamed and without context. Mostly there were… pebbles? And a large, dark pond where circles were mingling and breaking endlessly, but for a fleeting moment a commanding, serene tree-sentient smiled down at him, yellow-green eyes dancing before the image morphed into her mother hugging herself and he felt like crying, but then that image was whisked away too, and in its place crouched an angry-looking slave girl, snarling at him, and on and on and on it went, until he was sure he was going to throw up on his master’s shoes.   

 

The bond fortified and took an unambiguous form.

 

When it was over, padawan and master gaped at each other.    

 

“I think,” his master began, sounding baffled in spite of all the earlier talk and contemplation, “we should rearrange your haircut before you go to bed, padawan.”

 

Feeling windswept and a little ill, Anakin was nevertheless sure he hadn’t smiled like this in months.

 

***

 

“I don’t understand where you get your flair for dramatics, padawan. Certainly not from me.”

 

_I follow your teachings in all things, master._

 

Such everyday banter, framework learned by heart, and still it took all of Obi-Wan’s strength to form the words and string them together in his mind in a sensible manner.

 

Afterwards he floated, blessedly free of thought. He felt stuffy and out of seams, left light paddings of himself wafting in his wake. Time moved funny ways, one moment clunking heavily, other moment straying like a fluff of a coarseweave flower in high winds. His master might have been there, and other times he was not. The Force was there for a moment, sun-speckled, lapping against the edges of his consciousness, and then gone in a blink of an eye.

 

It wasn’t until after they pulled the blasted tube from his throat a second time when he began to settle. His body remembered gravity once again. He was one solid whole for the first time in what felt like months.

 

A faint whistling sound that made him feel… safe?

 

The door whooshed open and closed. The intermittent whistling stopped.

 

“Master Jinn? It’s getting late. You’re sure you don’t require anything?”

 

“No thank you, healer Onossa. You’re stretched thin enough tonight with the influenza season down the creche. You don’t have to worry about me or waste time being hospitable.” Qui-Gon’s voice was gruff.

 

“You’re practically part of the furniture anyway nowadays. Just shriek if I try to sit on you,” the healer joshed but the tone was mellow. “And it’s Ne.” The soft, hurried steps retreated.

 

“Perks of being old, tired and immovable, Ne.”  

 

Of course; his master had been sleeping, hence the subdued whistling from his crooked nose. Obi-Wan had lost track of the times he’d lain awake listening to that sound. They hurtled through the hyperspace probably, trying to rest in some spaceship’s cramped bunk where the air was flimsi dry. A sound from simpler, more innocent times. A sound from home.                      

 

He craved to be able to rub his eyes like an overtired youngling.

 

The steps stopped at the door. The door kept whooshing, unable to close itself.

 

“You know they’re talking, Jinn. I don’t care for gossip, but they even tried to come after me once. I’m just saying, you and revered master Windu should be careful. That… arrangement with that odd poor boy, an outsider from their point of view. And you, sitting here every night, being all furniturey.”

 

“What do you think of it, Ne?” his master’s voice was mild.

 

A huff. “Me? Little unimportant junior healer? What do I know about the ways of the Force, in the grand scheme of things? All I know, like every healer knows, that compassion can either weaken Jedi, or make him stronger, irrepressible.”

 

“Those who prefer tradition and Code above compassion don’t agree with you, naturally.” Qui-Gon was smiling absentmindedly, Obi-Wan just knew. His master had fought this fight so many times - remarkably, many of those times with him - that it had lost all of its glory.

 

“They can stuff it. Every single one of us needs belonging, companionship, understanding and--. Well. Without, we just drift and fade and won’t fight when we must. You just can’t let it control _all_ of you, can’t let it cloud your vision. You let the Force guide you, surrender yourself to it, and let go when it needs to be so. But to be deprived of it...”

 

“You speak with wisdom and courage beyond your years, Ne Onossa. The everlasting problem, however, is balance. Many of us believe it’s the easiest to achieve when the tightrope is removed altogether. It seems very dangerous for them, the constant acrobatics.” His master sounded as weary as Obi-Wan felt.

 

The following words were muted, as if the speaker had turned her head away from Obi-Wan’s bed. “You’ll get it back, Jinn. The balance, I mean. He’s fighting, every day. He’s coming back to you.” The door closed, hissing triumphantly.

 

_“To be a Jedi is to fight for balance over and over, every day, so we may know compassion and yet not let it control us. Some would say it’s a path even more narrow than the one the traditional ones preach about. Some would say it’s heresy. What does the Force tell you, young one?”_

 

_I know your speech by heart, master. Why didn’t you finish it with her?_

 

_You breathe the way you do when you’re exhausted. Why are you sleeping here instead of your own bed? Your hip must plot your bloody murder by now. Don’t tell me you’ve left the boy alone at night. You wouldn’t be so negligent. Is that why Onossa was talking about master Windu again? You’d better hope he doesn’t start to haunt Anakin’s dreams like some overgrown loth-bat._

 

Qui-Gon didn’t seem to acknowledge any of his padawan’s concerns, but merely blew his nose; an oddly endearing sound. Obi-Wan had sometimes toyed with the idea that he would let slip at the salles that yes, Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn, diplomat, warrior and maverick extra-ordinaire, actually had an allergic reaction once in a blue moon. It would almost be worth the risk, to see the looks on the younger padawans’ faces.

 

“Well, so much for sleep. You know, I think we should take care of this,” - a tweak to his braid - “if you’re sure you’re done giving everybody a scare. It’s not like we let you keep it very long after you wake up. They have decided that fighting a Sith and saving your old master is quite enough for the Trials.” Qui-Gon didn’t sound particularly happy about it, not eager like in front the Council, before, but… wistful?

 

His master had large hands for a humanoid, but his touch was light and nimble as he unwound the learner’s braid and began anew. Silka beads put on the night table for safekeeping made a small tinkle.  

 

Qui-Gon’s hands stilled in the middle of rebraiding, however, the three plaits still outspread all over. He simply held the separated parts in his hands. Obi-Wan felt a lump in his throat.

 

_Would I dare? Would it be worth the risk?_

 

Qui-Gon had already bent over to get the root of the braid, but now Obi-Wan felt a weight next to his right hand. Qui-Gon rested his forehead lightly against his fingertips.

 

It had to mean that the Jedi master was almost doubled over next to his bed, broad shoulders hunched.

 

“Don’t you think it’s been enough, dear one? Please. Wake up.” A choked whisper.

 

His body should be shaking, why wasn’t it shaking under all this pent up emotion he couldn’t release? It should wake up right at this instant; it should obey the plea of his master and fall on its knees with gratitude, because nobody made Qui-Gon Jinn plead and walk away from Obi-Wan Kenobi.  

 

_I will master, I promise I will._

 

_(Your words and breath against my fingers.)_

 

“If you come back, I promise not to keep you from your fate anymore. I should’ve told you you were ready months ago. You almost threw it all away for an old fool who hasn’t learned his lessons about attachments,” Qui-Gon’s voice was muffled.

 

Something cracked. Obi-Wan dared to remember **.**

 

*******

_He was ashamed._

 

_The monster with the yellow eyes laid defeated by his hand, but at what cost? He felt flayed. The sight of his fallen master had ripped all of his conscious thoughts, his education, his sense of self from him. What was left was pure instinct, unadulterated rage. A paradox, a freezing fire, purging thought and logic, leaving embers of his old self behind. He had used it, had bent it to his will with iron fists. The Sith laid dead and he was tainted._

 

 _The Dark tainted him. His master couldn’t hear him, and kept walking away no matter how he begged and sobbed. And it must be because he was_ **_wrong_ ** _._

 

_His world was dying in his arms and he was unable to save him. Nothing was right, and he couldn’t make it right, not even beg for forgiveness because it was his love’s last moments and all he ever wanted was to make him proud._

 

_And still Qui-Gon kept walking._

 

_So he promised and he bargained and he made his master proud, all for nothing._

 

_His heart, and the world, stopped._

 

_The Force held its breath, expectant._

 

_I understand, Obi-Wan thought and bowed his head. I give myself because it’s the only thing I have a right to give._

 

_But me, my shame and my salvation and my dreams for you, always._

 

_The Dark and the Light rose in a roaring wave, battling for dominance, neither one winning, engulfing him. The emotion, the compassion, the taint, the sacrifice, his poor insufficient love, all of them coursed through him, purifying and scorching. He welcomed them. Because this was something he had the right to give, and the Force would take, take and take in exchange._

 

_Somewhere in his arms, and simultaneously in the far distance, a heartbeat._

_***_

_So,_ stated a dry voice in his head. His frank teaser, who recently had began to sound like a mix between Bant, master Tahl and healer Onossa. The words reverberated in his frontal bones. He wanted to shoo them away.  

 

_How does it feel to deny himself of all this for years, only to have it all thrown in your face? For a Jedi can choose whether compassion and emotion rule him and make him weak, or accept them, and get so much incredibly stronger._

 

_Now only thing left to accomplish is to wake up and go to him and let him tell you to never, ever to do that again. You can now, you know. You didn’t fail him. More importantly, you didn’t fail yourself, your own truth, Jedi._

 

_Break this asylum in your own mind._

 

Obi-Wan let go. He would have liked to curl up and shiver and let these emotions leave his body in sync with the heaving sobs. The only outward sign of ground-shifting findings was the sped up beeping from his brain activity monitor. He felt Qui-Gon’s frown against his hand. His master rose and went to check the machine. It seemed hardly minutes had passed.

 

The monitor died down with his calming thoughts. Accept, no need to cling, no need to release either. Only accept. Oh Force, how he could have denied himself this? It felt such a fool’s errand, like he had declared he would conquer space itself.

 

He heard Qui-Gon’s vertebrae popping as the man stretched. His master sat down and finished his braid without another word. The night was getting late above Coruscant.

 

For a fleeting moment, something stirred on their bond, like an insect gliding on still lake water. If Obi-Wan hadn’t been so over-sensitive, so tuned in already, he would have missed it.

 

A whispered plea, trapped somewhere between release and acknowledgement, fluttering along the bond.  

 


	5. Chapter 5

The bond was still there. He checked it first thing in the Force in the two seconds it took to become fully alert. Heavy, quiet, sealed, unmoving.

 

The rooms had a neglected air to them, Qui-Gon noted in passing when he padded to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Dust had settled everywhere. His padawan’s door was slightly ajar, had been for weeks now, ever since they had left hurriedly for Naboo the second time. Ever since he came back to the apartment from the bacta tank. He pondered about closing it, like he did every morning. He left it open. He pondered about going in, like he did every morning. He didn’t.

 

It took a gentle coaxing from the Force to ease a dull ache in his hip joints when he descended during the morning meditation. His body had started to remind him of every misdemeanor against it from the last decade during these past weeks. It was the price of the wee hours of sleep he managed: even Jedi stamina had its limits.       

 

_Few weeks on your own, Jinn, and you’re reduced to a puttering old man,_ he thought ruefully when he rose from the useless attempt, tea long over-brewed.

 

He had actual classes to prepare, Force and stars. Mace had snorted with laughter when he told him, bearing a startling resemblance to Tahl for a millisecond despite that they looked nothing alike. Teaching masters had urged him to do it for years. He had only accepted short guest lectures before, usually when Obi-Wan had been in some extra gruelling study rotation and he preferred to stay in-Temple. He wasn’t quite flaunting his Advanced Master Class in Diplomacy (case studies, mostly) in the face of the gossiping mob, but it was a close thing. There were more students in the lectures than he had anticipated, and the cynical side of him wondered if they were there to witness his slow-motion deterioration.

 

It also did nothing to fill the void.

 

He had an appointment with Cin Drallig in the afternoon after classes and quiet take-away lunch at the atrium. He wasn’t avoiding the crowds per se, but it was easier to avoid lunch time in the most popular refectories. It got tiresome to curb winces every time a youthful surge of joy spiked at the Force when the herds of youngsters rushed downstairs to their lunch break.   

 

Drallig wasn’t happy with him. He wasn’t happy with himself. The mobility of his right pectoral wasn’t at the required level, leaving openings in his defence. He could cover it up at salles well enough, but out there… it was the little things, mostly. He tied his hair and found tiredness where it had no place to dwell. He had to actually think before grabbing a tea mug in the mornings. He wasn’t ignoring his physical therapy to the same extent as the scheduled sessions with mind healers, but the grey hue which colored his days made him care slightly less than he should.

 

_I’ve done this before. I hid emotion behind the serenity of a masterly demeanor,_ he thought. _As a master, one is bound to do so, to protect and nurture._ _It has always been a “fake it till you make it” sort of thing. I got so good at faking it I fooled myself. Why not this time?_

 

_Because he was the only one who saw through it in your later years together,_ the Force offered an insight when he stared at the tiles in the sonics. His right side throbbed to the rhythm of his heartbeat. _And now, when he’s not here to offer you the comfort of knowing, you’re leaking all over the place. Much like this antique shower head._   

 

_Kriff this,_ he thought and shut the water off with the frivolous Force push that would have earned any padawan a swat to the head with a towel.            

 

_Swat to the head with a towel would also be good for this youngling_ , he thought, sourly amused, when he got back to the apartment and found out Anakin had arrived early and was doing the dishes. He had specifically forbidden Anakin to clean the apartment up every time he was left alone. The connotation of servitude had bothered him. The boy had just sniffed at his living conditions and carried on.

 

Not a youngling, a padawan, he realised belatedly, spotting the short beginnings of a braid behind Anakin’s right ear. The boy shook his head self-consciously, always aware of the eyes on him. So Mace had finally gotten his head out of his arse. Good for them.

 

“I see congratulations are in the order,” he greeted, softening his voice on purpose. Anakin’s ears turned pink.

 

“Thank you, master.” The padawan’s bow was flawless at last, despite the foamy hands.

 

“Leave the plates be for a moment, and come sit with me, padawan Skywalker,” he asked and guided the boy back to the living area. As they settled down for meditation, he noticed the nervous knots the newly appointed padawan was kneading into the kitchen towel.

 

“Spit it out.” _Master, getting old and puttering doesn’t mean you have to be fractious,_ the crisp Coruscant accent chided in his head. His head was a noisy and crowded place nowadays.

 

“It’s just that,” the boy started to the kitchen towel on his lap. “That you said you were making me your padawan, but then everything on Naboo happened and you were in grave danger and my master couldn’t just let things unravel, he said, and well.” Anakin raised his eyes and met his at last.

 

“Now I’m not your padawan. Except I know now it would have been impossible anyway. But I would have gladly been. Except that I’m happy with master Mace, of course.”

 

The boy was a chatterbox when he was nervous.

 

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, master Qui-Gon.”

 

And that was difference right there, the crux of the matter. Obi-Wan had slowly learned him, just as much as he had learned the boy, now a man grown, until they were fluent with each other’s tells, ticks and moods. Anakin, his-student-that-was-not-his-padawan, had neither time nor patience for that: he asked, and expected an answer. It made things easier and more difficult at the same time.  

 

“Anakin, I promised you would be a Jedi one day. It’s happening, and I’m glad for you. Force willed it another way than I had in mind, but that’s nothing new. You know I’ll always be here, and have a significant part of your training, like master Windu explained. Master Windu was right. Nobody knew if I was going to survive. You were exposed and vulnerable. The future was clouded and uncertain, and he took action.” Qui-Gon didn’t mention anything about the Force compulsion and its absence when he woke up. It wasn’t Anakin’s burden to carry.

 

“Yeah, he told me. Shatterpoints,” Anakin mumbled. Qui-Gon raised his brow. Having a padawan seemed to remind Mace that he was indeed capable of interaction without layers of cover-ups.

 

Anakin put the towel aside. “It’s already gotten my master into trouble. Some people are angry with him because I’m too old and unsuitable. Other people are angry with him because they think I have two masters, and that my master has lost his mind and that you’re dishonoring your padawan by accepting me. Yet another people think my master and you have taken for yourselves a privilege he denies the others, of deciding about the bonds themselves, and it devastates them,” the boy explained precociously. Shadows and doubts chased each other on his face.

 

_Changes and ruptures,_ the padawan-inside-his-head whispered.

 

“I like that master Mace is my master. But I like you as well. I’ve hurt both of your reputations. And I’ve hurt mister Obi-Wan, and I’m so, so, so sorry,” Anakin whispered, his shoulders hunched.

 

“Ani. Come here.” He opened his arms, and the boy leaped into them, sobbing once, twice before he got it under control.

 

“Many centuries ago this wouldn’t have been a problem. That’s where master Windu got the idea, anyway. Jedi were open to more complex bondings, back then. The modern Code changed things, distanced us from the family structures and shaped us more into an Order-like fellowship,” he explained while rubbing the boy’s back. The truth was more complex, like it always was when ideologies and loyalties clashed at the wartime, but the history was written by survivors.

 

“People decide their bonds no matter how much some old _koochoo_ try to interfere,” Anakin muttered against his chest, startling an honest bark of laughter out of Qui-Gon.

 

“That they do, young one, that they do. Although both people and old farts tend to  complicate matters, for sure. Not for me, my reputation wasn’t that venerable from the beginning with. Master Windu must be struggling though.”

 

“You can call him Mace when I’m around, you know.” Anakin raised his head and wiped his nose, looking indignant. “He argues with the Council, he argues with _master Yoda_ , and he won’t let me _help!_ I’m supposed to be on his side!” Qui-Gon made a mental note to visit his grand master, and soon. He wasn’t sure at all which sides Mace and the meddling troll stood on this.

 

_Brave little one._ Padawan-in-his-head sounded proud. Suddenly, the echo constricted his chest.

 

“Come on, now. Let’s add a touch of complexity to those shields of yours, and you’ve tons of homework to do before your master returns from the Senate,” Qui-Gon guided Anakin back to the meditation pose. Somewhere in the Force, Tahl was laughing heartily as he got a taste of his own medicine.

  


***

 

He rarely let himself to these corridors before the sun began to settle. It didn’t matter that he would have liked to spend all his waking moments here. His reputation could go to gundarks for all he cared, but Siths be damned if he would let them tarnish Obi-Wan’s future.

 

The setting sun behind the window made the IV fluid bag glimmer on its rack. He sat down and greeted the night shift, a firrerreo who poked his head inside and scowled at him. He projected masterly calm, and the healer retreated. The grey miasma hanging over his head dissipated a little when he turned his attention to a slumbering young man.   

 

Despite the life-sustaining fluid, his padawan’s cheekbones were way too prominent for his liking. The lips were chapped. The prolonged immobility had gnawed its way through the resources of the body; the notable amount of the muscle mass was already gone. His skin was pale, Tatooine sun long forgotten, although the sickening yellow tone had vanished. The recovery would be long, and padawan vexed.

 

There _would_ be a recovery.

 

The beams of the setting sun danced on Obi-Wan’s hair, the copper catching fire among sand. _How he can look like that after all I put him through,_ he thought numbly. So many failings he didn’t voice today, didn’t have the right to place them on younger shoulders.   

 

“Evening, padawan. You need shaving, I have to remember it next time,” he said instead and carefully checked the pulse point in the younger man’s neck. The machine could have told him the readings, but he needed the reassurance.

 

Steady as always nowadays. The ginger stubble felt brittle beneath his fingers.

 

He jerked his hand back like it had wandered too close to a flame. He hadn’t earned the right to touch without purpose.

 

Something else to concentrate on. Focus.      

 

Lovely winter-dried reeds from the swamp gardens stood in a vase, a mark that Bant Eerin had come and gone. The abandoned book of master Ryohl’kienn’s poetry laid next to it on the night table. Madame Nu would be furious at him. He picked up the book and tried to smooth the wrinkles in the last page he had been reading out loud.

 

_“I sat facing you for hours but you didn't speak;_

_Then I finally understood the unspoken meaning._

_Removed from their covers, books lay scattered about;_

_Outside the bamboo screen, rain beats against the plum tree.”_

 

He clenched his hand when an urge to rip a page took him by surprise. It shouldn’t take him by surprise, not anymore, not in many years.

 

“I think I have to sit here as long until I figure out how to prevent you to do this ever again. Then again, it would be so much easier if you woke up and _told_ me,” Qui-Gon grumbled.  

 

_But isn’t it a sign for Trials when students’ presence offers koan to a master?_ padawan-in-his-head whispered.

 

“I’m not so fond of riddles as my master and my master’s master,” he snarled, and covered his face with his hands when he realized he had just argued out loud with a ghost.

 

Force, how he needed to meditate. This morning had proved itself as barren as the weeks’ worth of mornings before it. The Force stood still like a backwater around him, waiting for him to come to a conclusion, but the moment he reached for help it shrank away from him.

 

_He sees through you. That’s why he sought your forgiveness on Naboo before you went to battle. He saw through your reasoning. You’re so good, you convinced yourself._

 

For one incredulous moment, he thought his padawan had finally returned to him, but the bond remained terrain-heavy and lethargic. 

 

_Force compulsion my arse. You can lie to the whole Council and yourself, but not to me,_ the crisp ghost voice hissed vehemently.

 

He had been so certain. This whole thing, this whole obsession with Anakin had offered an elegant solution out of the situation that was getting out of control. Yes, the Force had definitely guided him, let him know that the boy needed training, needed to be a Jedi. But the obsession, harsh words, pushing Obi-Wan to the Trials so unexpectedly, this back and forth with Anakin that was so unfair to the boy, gods and Siths, even facing the Sith alone, it was all his own doing, because before -

 

Before, he hadn’t known how to let Obi-Wan walk out of his life. It had scared him witless, how to live a life when his heart wasn’t a part of him anymore, when somebody else carried it within, out to the vast Galaxy.

 

The blinding, paralysing horror as he realized that because of his flawed reasoning, because of his obsession, his heart had first fallen in the battle of Theed for an endless, heartstopping moment. After that, Qui-Gon had been determined to lead the Sith away and get his fully capable padawan out of death’s way. Because he had fought the creature before, unlike Obi-Wan.

 

And then his heart had faced an ancient evil alone.

 

_And he didn’t know how to let_ **_you_ ** _go. Look where our fears have led you._ He couldn’t tell anymore if it was the ghost talking or somebody else.

 

Qui-Gon drew a sharp breath and dropped his hands.

 

“Dear one. I understand. Come back, and I promise to stop being afraid. I’m so sorry. I deceived everyone, myself included, except you.”

 

The bond, blessed bond, finally resonated wordlessly, surprise and determination and unbearable, painful tenderness, like a warm fire after winter patrol. He bowed his head in front of it.

 

_I know all you’ve shown me lately are mirrors and surfaces, but I really need to get through now_ , he thought when he slided to the floor. The Force chimed in recognition, shattering effortlessly when he plunged.

 

***

   

In the morning, Gaor and Ne found master Jinn deep in meditation on the floor of the patient Kenobi’s room. The Force sang around them, luminous and victorious, calling lost ones home.     

 

***

Realizing that your prison is at least partly of your own making should make a prison break a lot easier, right?

 

Right.

 

This isn’t a boundless kriffing space, but only an echo chamber in your own mind, Obi-Wan told himself, over and over. This is where you hid from all these emotions and epiphanies you didn’t want to deal with. This is where you retreated when there was nothing else left standing at Theed. These are nothing but walls. Find the cracks. There’s bound to be cracks. That’s how the Force gets in, when you’re not paying attention. That’s how you were able to reach him even for a moment.

 

After he promised he would stop being afraid. _If I came back._

 

In the end, it was the pathetic lifeforms that helped him find the solution. The queue of furry, prickly, poisonous, hissing and spitting creatures that marked the earlier years in his apprenticeship under master Oh-Living-Force-must-have-guided-it-to-us Jinn had taught him a thing or two.

 

No sudden movements. Definitely no yelling. Make it aware of your presence, but don’t let it feel threatened. Let it come to you on its own terms, for if there’s one thing besides cruelty which is galactically universal, it’s curiosity.

 

He sat down (figuratively) and prepared for a long wait. _I don’t need this anymore,_ he thought. It has served well, but it’s time to let this shelter go. Even without the Force, it didn’t take long before his mind had dropped into a light trance.

 

The heightened awareness wanted him to pay attention to something in the corner of his eye.

 

Pattern! It slipped through his grasp a few times until he realised he shouldn’t try to catch it with his eyes but with his touch. He sent his mind forward carefully, oh so carefully. Yes, definitely cracks in the dark wall. They run around him. They almost felt like elevated scars when he pressed his metaphorical cheek against them.

 

He probed his way forward and eventually found a cluster where most of the scarred veins bundled up. He had managed to send a small part of his consciousness through them one night before, powered by Force and sheer emotion, but to break the safeguard down completely, what would it mean for his obviously damaged mind?

 

A moment of hesitation almost broke his concentration, but he shrugged - it was time to take something back - and pushed. The wall gave in with a smack.

 

The blackness swallowed him. The black ink was everywhere, in his eyes, in his ears, in his mouth when he opened it to scream. It permeated his _skin_. He knew he had to keep pushing forward, but where was forward? Where was Obi-Wan in this?

 

_If you panic now, you’ll get lost in this forever,_ he thought, and the blackness ate that thought, and it no longer belonged to him.

 

_Next time you think about stifling your emotions, remember this, Kenobi_ , he thought grimly, prepared this time, and fought tooth and nail when the black ink tried to snatch that thought too.

 

He didn’t know how long he wandered, lost inside the weird shielding in his mind. That he had let this fester inside himself sickened him. It seemed to want to absorb everything it got in its clutches. And yet, it also might have saved his core when Force was demanding every piece of him in exchange.

 

After a long, long time there was something soothing in his… face? Whose face? Whoever touched it must be kind, because touch was sure and careful.   

 

_Follow the touch_ , somebody - he himself? - urged, and Obi-Wan did.

 

The oily substance broke little by little, begrudgingly, and he emerged to the outer layers of his mind, spluttering and gasping for breath.

 

***

 

The hearing returned first. The beeps and clicks of the machines, hum of the monitors, footsteps further down the corridor. They were as familiar as the sounds of his own room by now. Why he had a feeling that his ears should ooze something?

 

The touch followed. It was late in the afternoon, if the warmth from the window side was any indication. His throat felt parched. Something scratched along his cheek. Why was he so relieved that his skin was once again his own?

 

A faint sound of metal clinking against metal, and the warm fingers returned and turned his chin just a little. The scratching sensation recurred. He recognised the touch now.

 

His master had kept his promise and was shaving his face.

 

They didn’t touch each other like that, not much. Out of necessity of course, when the other was injured or needed help with the sash of the formal diplomatic outfit. A comforting hug every now and then, usually when it was necessary to support the other with Force energy. But this, this was about reverence and solace, like the rare moments his master had asked him to untangle his hair.   

 

If only he wasn’t so dazed. Whatever he had been doing only mere moments ago must have drained him. He felt like he should worry about this latest memory lapse, but the warm hands made concentration difficult.

 

_He promised to stop being afraid. Maybe I can have this? At least this? I won’t ask anything else._

 

So he drifted, simply enjoying and memorising the sensations, until a hot towel covered his face and wiped the remaining cream away. Qui-Gon’s presence moved closer to the window where he regarded the blade critically against the light.

 

His master looked like he could use a shave too. And a decent meal and a week in bed. He looked haggard; the long, grey streaked hair dishevelled, crow’s feet etching themselves deeper. He ---

 

Obi-Wan blinked several times in a quick succession. _He looked_ **.**

 

He must have made some kind of sound because his master stilled and put the blade on the window shelf with measured movements.

 

Obi-Wan ached for him.

 

“Master?” he tried, but his bone-dry throat didn’t want to cooperate and the emerging sound was more of a pitiful, wordless croak.

 

Qui-Gon spun around, cerulean eyes full of disbelief and hope.

 

Obi-Wan tried to put on a smile - his face was unsure how it should act on such a sophisticated performance - and waved his hand uncoordinatedly.

 

“You stubborn, thank the For ---” Qui-Gon became a blur of Force-speeded movement mid-sentence, impossible for his tired eyes to follow, and okay, _ouch_ , the light was bright. The next thing Obi-Wan knew, his master was supporting his head with one hand and lifting a glass of water with a straw to his lips with the other.

 

“Small sips.”

 

He closed his eyes and moaned aloud because sweet Force, nothing has ever tasted this delicious in his relatively short life.

 

“That’s it, enough, your stomach isn’t used to anything like this after seven weeks.” The straw vanished.

 

Seven _weeks_ **,** seven Siths and their offspring! He had to see, had to be sure --- his hands weren’t agreeing to any refined motor skills, but they found their ways to Qui-Gon’s arms, blast the intravenous lines. He tried to squeeze the fabric, and the muscle response was pathetic, but it stopped the other man from retreating. He opened his eyes and found his master staring back at him with a stupefied look.

 

Alive. Gloriously, undeniably alive.

 

As if taking a hint, their bond flared back to life, unfurling and unfolding. It felt tender and sore and wonderful, like a large muscle that had been cramping for weeks, and finally found release. Qui-Gon exhaled with a whoosh.

 

Without warning, the Force was everywhere at once, dancing and whirling at the giddying speed. Obi-Wan had to close his eyes again against the onslaught and he laughed until there were streaks down his cheeks, and then he spread out and _flew._

 

_Fierceness of the spring,_ came Qui-Gon’s voice, full of wonder, and oh he had missed this, all of this, but that voice more than anything.

 

_Thunder at the pinewood mountains,_ he replied, soaring.

 

_All right, that’s enough, or the healers will have my head. Settle down or you end up in deprivation shock. Easy, let me help._

 

The Force withdrew, and he made a forlorn sound at the loss like a crecheling after the first lesson of Coalescence. His control had apparently decided that this was a fine day to take a vacation.

 

“Shhh, it’s all right. It will be there when you’re ready. Anchor yourself to the present moment.” The warm, broad hands were back, framing his face, offering a center.

 

“Hello master,” Obi-Wan whispered.

 

“If you ever do anything like this again, padawan, l unleash my full temper at you,” Qui-Gon whispered back.

 

Healer Onossa stood at the doorway, grinning from ear to ear.

  
  
  


Epilogue

  


“Do all Jedi dreams mean something?”

 

Sometimes his padawan was a man of the world, and sometimes he was fresh out of the Creche.

 

“No. Most of the dreams are just that, dreams, no matter what master Trilarnay tells you. They mean nothing else than that your brain is trying to create order from chaos. Why do you ask, padawan?”

 

Anakin tried to keep up with his master and shrug at the same time, which at Mace’s usual speed was a bold endeavor. “I sometimes dream about m--- padawan Kenobi.”

 

“Oh? Are they good dreams or bad?”

 

Anakin scrunched his nose. “Sometimes he has a beard. I don’t think it suits him. Pardon me master, but it’s true.”

 

“Well, like master, like padawan, I suppose. If you have an urge to shave your head unexpectedly, young one, please let me know beforehand.”

 

The boy snickered at first, but then got a more serious look on his face. “Master Qui-Gon is never there. I think that’s why I don’t like the beard. I think that’s why he doesn’t like the beard either, in my dreams.”

 

“Some of those dreams are horrible, and it’s demanded that he’s always alone. Sometimes _I_ left him alone,” the boy’s voice was small. He hunched, but then he became aware of the whispers that always seemed to follow him around in the Temple, and Mace felt a brief flare of irritation through their training bond. Anakin tempered it quickly and raised his chin. He was already much better with his shielding.

 

They arrived to the ward. “To be a Jedi means to be alone sometimes, padawan. We always have the Force,” Mace tried to warn his charge. “Our Code demands a lot of us, you begin to know this. We cannot expect to keep things or people if the sacrifice is asked from us. This is known as Perils of Attachment. Our duty as Jedi always comes first.”

 

Anakin stopped in front of Kenobi’s door and looked up to him. The boy’s eyes were dark, bottomless.

 

“Pardon me again, master, but like my mom used to say. Just because you turn your back and believe you have a higher cause doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” the boy stated flatly, opened the door and slipped in.

 

“Master Qui-Gon. Padawan Kenobi.”

 

“Ani! Come in, Obi-Wan is under once more, but with any luck we should be able to ---.”

 

Mace Windu stood outside the closed door, rubbing his temples.

 

_The question remains: what is justifiable and in your rights to sacrifice?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem by Ryōkan Taigu, translated by John Stevens.
> 
> There's a sequel in the making.


End file.
